


Untitled Stardew Omens Fic

by Atalan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Absolutely No Angst, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, M/M, SUCH FLUFF, Vignettes, idyllic country life, sappy romance, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-01-30 19:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atalan/pseuds/Atalan
Summary: Crowley has decided to give up on life in the city and move to the countryside. Aziraphale is intrigued by the new arrival in Pelican Town. Fluff ensues in such enormous quantities I am compelled by law to recommend a dental check-up after reading.A series of Good Omens/Stardew Valley ficlets I've been posting on tumblr as I play through thunderheadfred's "Stardew Omens" mod (which replaces Harvey with Aziraphale as the town doctor).  Knowledge of the game provides some additional context for the NPCs etc but really it's all about the ineffable farm romance here.Note: E rating is for the end of chapter 4 only. The rest of the fic is all very tame.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 508
Kudos: 1465





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThunderheadFred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderheadFred/gifts).

**Spring 3**

Crowley has made a horrible, horrible mistake.

The realisation doesn't hit him so much as it seeps into his brain as he's eating breakfast and listening to the unbearably chirpy morning chorus outside. It's a truth that's been waiting there for him all along, he thinks miserably, a fact that he's conveniently denied all this time to chase an impossible dream.

What sort of idiot, he wonders as he eats his crappy flavourless cereal (can't get a decent rasher of bacon in this whole hippy vegetarian valley), really thinks that a city boy with a law degree can upend his life, move to the country, and start a blissful new existence on an honest-to-goodness _farm_?

Hastur is going to bust a gut laughing. And Beelzebub is going to deny his re-application with a big, smug grin.

It's a lovely day when he steps outside. A perfect spring morning. Bright sun, gentle cooling breeze, azure sky with little fluffy clouds like Bob Ross got up early to have a go with his fan brush. It's hard not to feel his spirits lift, until he looks out over his new domain.

There are a lot of weeds. Trees - not just scrubby bushes but _actual full grown trees_, Yoba knows how long it's been since anyone maintained the land. A pond that he almost fell into on the first day. A weird and spooky cave in the cliff face. The ruins of a greenhouse. And rocks. So many rocks. He has to wonder if everyone else in the valley has been clearing rocks off their land and just dumping them onto his.

He looks at the tiny patch of soil he's cleared and tilled. There are parsnip seeds under there, in theory. Not that he's seen any evidence that they're doing anything useful. Even so, he fetches the watering can and dutifully sprinkles the soil.

Unfortunately that gives him a good look at the house. Well. "House". Cottage. Shack? _Hovel?_ It barely has indoor plumbing, and isn't _that_ a shock to the system after his thirteenth-floor condo with jacuzzi tub. He has to fill his watering can from an actual _well_. It won't fit in the tiny sink that's falling off the wall of the tiny bathroom. There isn't even a bath, just a showerhead plumbed directly into the wall over a dirt floor and a mysterious grate that goes to who-knows-where. He tries not to think about the mechanics of the toilet.

_You won't last a week,_ he remembers Ligur saying. At the time he stuck two fingers up and finished packing up his desk. Now he's thinking of just getting in the car and driving back to the city.

But he has his pride. And a good, solid streak of stubbornness. At the very least, he's not going to give Hastur and Ligur the satisfaction of quitting so soon. There are things he can do to improve his situation. Dip into his savings and get an actual kitchen installed, for one thing. And a bath. And a bed that doesn't sink down almost to the floor when he gets in it...

He casts one last grim look over his would-be paradise. There's a rabbit chewing happily on some weeds. Crowley silently cheers it on. Then he puts the watering can away and saunters into town.

* * *

**Spring 5**

The new owner of Eden Farm is decidedly not what the people of Pelican Town were hoping for. Aziraphale knows this because they've talked of nothing else since the start of the week, and honestly, he's starting to get a bit frustrated.

They're good people, is the thing. Warm, caring, friendly people, when you get to know them. It's just that they're also terribly wary of anyone from outside the valley, and especially anyone with the kind of money and city outlook that Crowley appears to have.

(He turned up in some sort of classic car, Aziraphale hears from Pam on the first night. Had a terrible time of it getting it down the track to the farm. He wears designer sunglasses and snakeskin boots. On a _farm_. Pam thinks he won't last the week.)

Aziraphale hasn't met him personally yet, but he has to admit Crowley doesn't _sound_ like someone who's going to enjoy life in the valley. He's heard various people's first impressions already. Sarcastic, cynical, prickly, they say. Doesn't have a clue what he's doing. Probably going to sell the farm off to Joja Co and let them build some horrible corporate shanty town on the land. Still, Aziraphale prefers to withhold judgement until he's actually met the man.

(It took almost a year for these people to accept _him_ as one of their own, and if he's completely honest, he still feels a faint ache of loneliness, of outsidership, of not quite belonging. He tells himself it's only to be expected as the town's only doctor. Of course they can't quite be as familiar with him as he might like. Of course they might be a little careful of what they say to him.)

"Did you hear," Gus says when Aziraphale stops in for his usual Friday evening drink, "that new farmer's got Robin working on the house already? Wants it twice the size by Tuesday, she says."

"Oh goodness," Aziraphale replies. "That sounds like a lot of work."

Gus laughs.

"Have you seen that place? Twice the size isn't even as big as this room. She'll be fine. He's paying double, too."

It ought to be a point in his favour, but Gus frowns as he says it. Folks who try to buy their way to success aren't popular in Pelican Town. The people here value hard work over hard cash. Aziraphale toys with his glass of Merlot.

"Well, that's awfully nice of him," Aziraphale says. He has no idea if it's true, but he feels a certain obligation to try and balance the scales of the town's opinion. "I should stop by and say hello, dreadfully rude of me not to."

"He doesn't seem like the type who's looking for friends," Gus replies with another frown, before he's called away to take Shane's order of cheesy chips and another beer that Aziraphale wishes he wouldn't have. He worries about that young man. He hasn't figured out the right way to say something yet.

He tells himself he'll wander out to Eden Farm tomorrow. Or the next day. He'll definitely do it this week, at least. If he can just get the dratted paperwork in order, heaven knows how it builds up the way it does, with such a small pool of patients.

* * *

**Spring 8**

Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin when the clinic door flies open and somebody bursts into the room. For a dreadful moment he thinks there must have been an accident, or— oh, heavens, he hopes George's heart hasn't finally given out on him—

Then he recognises the new arrival. Or, well, not _recognises_ in the sense that he's seen him before, but in the sense that he's heard him described and there's really only one option. Aziraphale blinks. The red hair isn't a surprise, nor are the sunglasses and the all-black ensemble, but although the town gossip has described Crowley as _thin and tall_, that doesn't really encapsulate the sheer angular frenzy of him as he hurries up to Aziraphale's counter.

He's hunched over, Aziraphale sees with alarm, one hand inside his stylish-but-not-warm-enough jacket.

"Is everything all right? Are you hurt?"

Crowley reaches the counter, and pulls his hand out of his jacket.

In it is a very small, very orange kitten, which stares up at Aziraphale and lets out a plaintive little mew that immediately and completely destroys his heart.

"_Oh_," he says, reaching out to gently pet the trembling little thing with a careful finger. It is impossibly soft. "Hello."

"Found it under my front steps, it was crying like anything, I don't think its mother's coming back—" Crowley is explaining in a rush. His voice is a surprise; somehow Aziraphale had expected something smooth and deep, not this too-quick, anxious ramble. "Is it hurt? Is it sick? What do I do?"

The raw panic is rolling off him in waves. Aziraphale stares at him, this stranger he's heard so much about, and cannot match a single secondhand opinion to what he sees in front of him.

Well. It's a good thing he refused to make up his mind before they met, isn't it?

"I'm not a vet, but perhaps I can—"

"You're not?" Crowley says, sounding genuinely confused. "I thought— it's such a small town, I figured you'd do both animals and people—"

Aziraphale tries not to laugh.

"Veterinary medicine is quite different from human medicine in a number of respects, not least the number of limbs," he says, already moving towards the door out of the waiting area. "Marnie's the local expert when it comes to our four-footed friends."

"Oh." Crowley gets a look on his face like he's trying to do a complicated sum. "Marnie's... she's south of me... right? Should I go there?"

Aziraphale waves Crowley towards the inner door.

"No, come in, I'll have a look. I know a thing or two about cats and there's always the, er, the _world wide web_—"

Relief floods Crowley's face and Aziraphale is momentarily stunned by the difference, how even without being able to see his eyes, his face is so expressive it's radiating a dozen different emotions. There's something absolutely captivating about someone who can convey such depth of feeling without a word, even when he catches himself and immediately schools his face back into neutrality.

"Great. Thanks. Just, y'know, don't want it to suffer—"

The kitten chooses that moment to mew loudly and pitifully again, and Crowley's attempt at a cool facade falters back into helpless concern as he peers down at the little creature. Aziraphale tries very hard to keep the smile off his own face.

"I suspect it's hungry," he says. "Come through to the back, I'm sure I have something that will do."

* * *

**Spring 12**

It's Friday, and somehow two weeks have passed, and Crowley's still here in the valley that high-speed broadband forgot. The house is at least more comfortable now, with its pleasant smell of new wood; the plumbing's been dragged kicking and screaming into the modern era, and he has taken delivery of an enormous and extremely comfortable double bed. The old one has been turned into kindling as a warning to the other furniture.

It's worth the investment, he tells himself. If he wants to sell the place he'll need to get it looking like it at least _could_ be someone's dream getaway to the country. One day. If you squint.

He glances at the kitten currently asleep on his pillow. There are at least four other places the kitten could be sleeping, but with unerring determination he's chosen the one place Crowley would rather he didn't. This is, Crowley is given to understand from the large amount of cat research he's been doing, entirely normal.

(Crowley has never owned a pet, unless you count his houseplants, which he doesn't, personally, because if he did he'd have to feel guilty about the way he treats them.)

It's Friday, and somehow two weeks have passed, and Crowley is, to his own surprise, rather in the mood for some company. He hasn't ventured out to the village pub yet, but he supposes it's a good night to try it out. He checks the kitten's food and water, pauses to pet the _adorable_ soft little ears, then heads into town.

The pub is surprisingly full, for a given value of full. Everyone looks at him when he opens the door; Crowley is reminded of old Westerns, half-expects somebody to pull a pistol on him, but all that happens is that Gus calls a hello, and a couple of other people nod, and then everyone carries on like he isn't even there.

Which is... fine. Absolutely fine. It's not like he wanted to be deluged with small talk. But at the same time, if he wanted to sit alone he'd have stayed at home. He heads for the bar, and that's when he spots Aziraphale perched further along it on a stool, eating olives and chatting to the blue-haired woman with the interesting wardrobe choices. He catches Crowley's eye, smiles, and waves, and Crowley decides that will do as an invitation. He saunters over to that end of the bar, and to his relief, Aziraphale looks quite pleased about it.

"How's your kitten getting along?" asks the blue-haired woman as Crowley fetches up leaning against the bar. What was her name? Adelie? Amy? "I heard from Marnie you decided to keep him."

Gossip travels faster in this town than it does in the Joja Co Legal Division, and that's saying something.

"Yeah, might as well," Crowley mumbles, wondering if they have any decent wine in this place. "Keep the... the mice and so on out of my barn."

"I didn't know you had a barn out there," says Possibly-Amy with some interest. "Thought it was just the house and all those weeds—"

"Well. I mean. I don't. Yet. But I might, one day. Uh." Crowley glances desperately between her and Aziraphale. "Anything good to drink here?"

"I was just about to order a glass of Chateauneuf du Pape myself," Aziraphale replies obligingly. "Gus has some lovely bottles in—"

"Sounds good to me."

Aziraphale beams like Crowley has paid him a compliment.

"Make it a bottle, then, would you, Emily dear?"

_Emily_, _right_, Crowley thinks, determined not to be caught out again. He's always been careful about remembering names, but then, he's always had them written down somewhere, on court documents or name badges or internal memos. It turns out it's harder to keep track when someone shouts a hello at you from halfway across a field.

"So, what did you name him?" Aziraphale asks as Emily moves off to search among the bottles. Crowley blinks. "The kitten," Aziraphale elaborates in the face of his obvious confusion.

"Er." Crowley suddenly deeply regrets his choice of name. It seemed like a fun little joke at the time, but the prospect of repeating it to someone else makes him cringe slightly. He tells a half-truth instead. "It's, uh, Freddie."

"Oh, that's nice!" Aziraphale says, without a trace of sarcasm. "Do you know, I once knew someone who had a cat called Mouse, and I never did manage to get to the bottom of why."

Crowley laughs before he can stop himself, delighted by Aziraphale's expression of deep bewilderment and regret, like this is the greatest failure of his life. Aziraphale smiles back at him, and Crowley feels a sudden and unexpected desire to get to know him better.

Well, he has to start somewhere with this whole getting to know the locals thing, right? Even if he doesn't stay past the end of the season, it'll help with sorting things out down the line...

Emily brings a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses. Crowley pours for both of them with practiced ease, and settles in for a half hour or so of conversation before he can make his excuses and leave.

(They end up getting hustled out by Gus at closing time, Crowley gets lost three times on the way back to the farm, and Freddie the kitten is _still_ asleep on his pillow when he finally gets home, which he discovers when he flops into bed and gets his nose bitten in protest. It's still the most fun Crowley's had since he got here.

... since a long time before, too, if he's honest.)

* * *

**Spring 13**

There's _bunting._ There's actual tiny flags hanging all over the town square. There's children shrieking and running around. Crowley is hungover and confused and he just wanted to stop by the general store for a few supplies, but the general store is closed and Pierre is manning a twee little stand that appears to mostly sell tubs of flowers.

This is not the Saturday morning Crowley was expecting and he's pretty sure he hates everything about it.

He goes looking for Aziraphale, mostly because he figures they'll at least be in the same boat with the hangover business, but to his dismay, Aziraphale's as chipper as ever and shows no signs of having overindulged the night before. Crowley wonders if he's got some secret doctor remedy, and pushes his sunglasses up higher to hide his eyes.

"Oh, it's the Egg Festival," Aziraphale explains when Crowley manages to get something out that approximates a question. "Happens every year, didn't Lewis send you a note? He's usually good about that."

Crowley thinks guiltily of the postbox that he keeps forgetting to check.

"Must've missed it," he mumbles. "What happens?"

"Well, it's mostly just an excuse for a little bit of a celebration, there's some nice things to eat and drink." Aziraphale glances around conspiratorially then lowers his voice. "Just, er, watch out for the punch. It's sometimes a bit... exciting, if Pam gets to it before Gus notices."

Crowley has no intention of drinking anything but water and caffeinated beverages for the next 12 hours. He's not sure food is a great idea either. He nods anyway, and prepares to slope on back to the farm to dig out some more rocks, or maybe just go back to bed and let the blasted place rot for a day.

"And there's the egg hunt, of course!" Aziraphale goes on cheerfully. "You should have a go at that, it's jolly good fun."

"The what?"

"Egg hunt. Painted eggs, hidden all over the place. Whoever collects the most wins a prize."

Crowley shoots him an incredulous look, which Aziraphale somehow manages to detect even behind the sunglasses. His smile turns sheepish.

"It's for the children really," he admits, "but no-one minds if you join in. I almost won last year."

"Yeah? Got beaten by a six-year-old, did you?"

"Well..." Aziraphale fidgets with his pocket watch. He really does dress like he fell out of the previous century, and Crowley can't help finding it ridiculously charming. "I had a bit of a mishap. Tripped at the last minute, arms full of eggs... I'm sure you can imagine. My favourite waistcoat was never the same afterwards. So I think I'll sit it out this time."

Despite the headache, despite his sour mood, despite the fact that the last thing he wants right now is to be stuck in the middle of some small-town festival, Crowley laughs.

"Don't suppose they have coffee over at that buffet table do they?" he asks.

"No," Aziraphale replies, "but I can nip into my place and put some on, if you like? Easy enough, they won't be starting for a while yet."

Crowley hesitates, because if he says yes, he's dooming himself to staying longer in the middle of all this brightness and chatter. But he's not sure he wants to see Aziraphale's face fall if he says no.

"I've some alka-seltzer on hand too, if you like," Aziraphale adds with a knowing smile.

Crowley grumbles and grimaces and sticks his hands in his pockets, and says, "Yeah, okay, fine. Thanks."

* * *

**Spring 17**

Aziraphale is trying quite hard not to eavesdrop on people's conversations about Crowley, but something in his brain seems to have set itself on a hair trigger whenever his name comes up. He doesn't like what he's hearing.

Oh, nothing truly bad, of course. No-one in this town has any real malice in their bones. But someone's heard that Crowley used to work for Joja Co, and so someone else has started to speculate that maybe he still _does_, maybe he never really had any intention of running the farm properly at all. Maybe this is just another corporate land-grab.

(Aziraphale remembers quite distinctly the way Crowley looked down at the bar top, traced an invisible pattern on it with his fingertip, said quietly, "Yeah, uh, dunno what I was thinking really, just thought I'd... just thought I'd try it." He doesn't know how to put into words the rush of something that went through him at the confession, at how clearly out of his depth Crowley is, and how clearly he refuses to be beaten without a fight.)

But it seems no-one _else_ has had a somewhat-drunken, rambling conversation with Crowley, or much conversation at all, and mostly what they talk about is still how he's too sarcastic and too city-slick, how he's short of patience and will be gone before the summer, how he's still wearing those expensive sunglasses, even if he's quietly switched to more practical footwear. How he doesn't _fit in_. How he probably won't stick around.

Aziraphale finds that he very much does not like the idea of Crowley not sticking around. For one thing, no-one else in town so providentially shares his taste in red wine.

Perhaps it's some misguided idea of helping out that has him wandering along to Eden Farm first thing in the morning, even though he's never picked up a spade in his life and is quite honestly unclear on what exactly is involved with farming other than putting seeds in the soil and hoping. He's slightly surprised by the clear space that greets him on arrival. Crowley has mercilessly hacked back the overgrowth around the house - which Robin has expanded quite beautifully - and there's even a neat little set of paths running from the gate, to the house, and over to a small patch of tilled soil where Crowley is kneeling and apparently swearing to himself.

Aziraphale approaches hesitantly, hoping he's not intruding.

"Er— good morning?"

"Blasted thing— oh, hi, uh, one sec."

Crowley yanks with all his strength on something in front of him. Whatever it is gives way so abruptly that he falls over backwards with a startled yelp. Aziraphale tries not to laugh. Crowley looks so cross, he's not sure it would be welcome.

"All right there?"

Crowley scrambles upright, stares at what's in his hands, and then _beams_ like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.

"Holy fuck I _did_ it!" he exclaims, holding out his muddy offering to Aziraphale. "Look!"

It's mostly a misshapen lump of soil, but Aziraphale hazards a tentative guess.

"Potatoes?"

"Yes! And I _made them_!" Crowley shakes the clump vigorously. Dirt flies off in all directions, some of it landing in his hair. He doesn't even seem to notice. "Take _that_, rocks!"

Aziraphale has to press his hand very hard against his mouth because otherwise he's going to do something inadvisable, like burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter, or tell Crowley that he's the best thing he's ever seen right now, with his mud-spattered shirt and his grubby hands and his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and his whole face _aglow_.

"I came to see if you needed a hand with anything," Aziraphale says after a long moment and a long breath. "But you seem to have it all under control."

* * *

**Spring 20**

"What was it you did in the city?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley barely hides his flinch. He almost feels like everyone in the pub is listening for his answer, even though no-one's openly paying attention to them.

"Nothing interesting," he says, taking a long sip from his glass and making a note to write down the name of the vintage. "What about you, you haven't lived here all your life, have you?"

It's half a guess, half a memory of something Aziraphale said on some other occasion. Crowley's just desperate to move the conversation on somewhere that doesn't involve his previous career, but to his surprise, Aziraphale hesitates to answer as well. Crowley wonders suddenly if it's for the same reasons - but that's ridiculous. Someone like Aziraphale can't possibly have anything to be ashamed of in his past.

"Oh, I've always practised medicine," Aziraphale says finally, with a smile that Crowley thinks is not quite as bright as it normally is. "But I, well, I got tired of the city, you know, I'd see so many patients I'd hardly remember their names... I decided perhaps it was time to make a change, and I ended up here."

Ridiculous or not, there's a story there, but Crowley's not so hypocritical as to pry into it when he's being less than forthcoming on his own account.

"Any regrets?" he asks, thinking about his farm full of rocks and the numbers on his bank account getting lower and lower. Aziraphale shoots him a sharp look, like he's hit a nerve, and Crowley adds hastily, "About living here, I mean?"

Aziraphale's expression relaxes into a fond smile as he glances over the room.

"No," he says, "it's just what I hoped it would be. I know all my patients, and the people here are— they're kind, and they help each other without expecting to profit off every little thing—"

He takes a sudden drink from his wine, like he's said something he shouldn't. Crowley shoots him a sideways glance, tries not to wonder too obviously.

"I know what you mean," he says, fiddling with his wineglass. "Don't you get bored, though?"

"My dear, have you _seen_ the library here?" Aziraphale replies with an impish smile. "I could read for ten years and still not be done with it. It's quite remarkable for such a small town."

Crowley rolls his eyes and grimaces and tries not to fixate on the _my dear_.

"I don't read," he says automatically, even though it's— well, it's not strictly true, or at least, it doesn't have to be anymore. "But there's no nightlife—"

"I've never been much of a _nightlife_ sort of person," Aziraphale replies primly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with self-deprecatory humour. "But yes, I do miss the ability to, oh, pop out for a nice lunch, or go to a concert or a play on a whim. I keep thinking I should learn to drive so I can visit the city more."

"You don't drive?"

"I never needed to before I came here," Aziraphale admits. "And I hardly need to now. I can use the bus, it's just—"

"I'll give you a lift," Crowley offers before he can stop himself. "Next time you want to visit, just let me know."

Aziraphale blinks at him, cheeks flushing very slightly, and Crowley busies himself reaching for the bottle to top up both their glasses.

"That's— that would be very kind of you," Aziraphale says after a moment. "Do let me buy the next bottle, won't you?"

* * *

**Spring 24**

"What are you _wearing_?" Crowley demands, before he realises that the question is potentially both rude and over-familiar. Fortunately, Aziraphale just laughs.

"It's traditional," he says, tugging at the slightly-too-tight embroidered blue jacket. "For the dance, you know."

Crowley looks around and sees that, indeed, a number of other people are wearing a similar get-up. It suits precisely none of them. Sebastian's scowling at his own shoes and Shane looks like he's considering crawling under a bush. Crowley can't fault either of them. The girls are also sporting frilly white dresses, and the only one who can really pull it off is Haley. Everyone else looks like a disconsolate meringue, except Emily, who gives more of a vibe of hyperactive whipped cream.

"Dance?" Crowley queries.

"The flower dance. It's part of the festivities. You don't _have_ to wear the costumes, but Emily does work so hard on them..."

"So anyone can join in?"

"Well, you need a partner. And to know the steps, but honestly, it's not difficult, at least if you've a little more natural rhythm than me. Most people seem to find it easy enough to pick up as they go along."

Crowley doesn't dance. Not _this _kind of dancing, anyway. He's all for grooving on the nightclub floor, but all this prancing about with flower crowns, no, definitely not his thing, not a part of his image. But Aziraphale looks so excited and anticipatory, a sparkle in his smile, and yes, the jacket is the wrong cut on him, but the colour does bring out the blue of his eyes, and Crowley opens his mouth, about half a second away from saying something very, very foolish.

Fortunately, Aziraphale glances out at the assembled townsfolk, and says, "I've promised to dance with Maru, she's always a bit nervous, so I told her we could partner up, since she's bound to look good in comparison to me and my two left feet."

Crowley's mouth snaps shut with a click that rattles his skull. He shoves his hands in his pockets and makes a non-committal noise.

"What about you?" Aziraphale asks. "I'm sure Robin or Gus would be happy to step in, they've always enjoyed—"

"I don't dance," Crowley says, and he doesn't _mean_ it to come out like that, like Aziraphale's an idiot for even asking, like Crowley's looking down on the whole thing, it's just that some habits are hard to break, even when you don't need them anymore.

"Oh, of course." Aziraphale becomes very interested in adjusting his cuffs. "Well, that's all right. Try not to laugh too much as I make a fool of myself then. I'd better, ah— see you in a bit."

He hurries over to where the dancers are assembling. Crowley looks down at his own feet, considering which one would fit better in his mouth, since that's clearly where it belongs.

He watches the dance in a grumpy haze, initially exacerbated by how much fun Aziraphale appears to be having. If he's got two left feet, Crowley can't see it. He moves in time with everyone else and he seems to know all the steps and after a while his sheer beaming joy in it drags Crowley reluctantly out of his sulk.

He loses sight of Aziraphale after the dance, as everyone mills around, but just as he's thinking it might be time to slip off back home, something softly touches the top of his head, and he jumps and spins around.

Aziraphale is beaming at him, still a bit out of breath and flushed, yanking his hands back innocently. Crowley puts a hand up and feels - yes, a flower crown, set neatly on top of his head with no regard for the integrity of his hairstyle or his personal aesthetic.

"Didn't want you to feel left out," Aziraphale says brightly. "It rather suits you, you know."

* * *

**Spring 28**

Aziraphale's only excuse is that he really, really isn't expecting anyone to come into the clinic today. The last day of Spring is always busy - Pierre's in the middle of turning over his stock and probably won't emerge until after dark - and it's a Sunday besides. No-one has an appointment booked and Aziraphale expects no drop-ins unless someone has an accident, which he fervently hopes will not be the case.

Which is why he's got the stereo turned up as he rearranges his information posters on the wall of the waiting room, and why he's singing along with gusto when Crowley walks in. The worst part is that Aziraphale doesn't register the door opening until Crowley is already two steps inside, so he can't even pretend not to be right in the middle of belting out the chorus of _Angel of the Morning_.

"Crowley!" he exclaims, feeling himself redden as if he's been caught doing something illegal. He's terribly conscious of the state he's in, his sleeves rolled up and his bow tie loose so he could undo his top button. "Er— is everything all right?"

He asks partly because it's his duty as a doctor, partly because Crowley has stopped dead like he's run into an invisible wall. It's always so hard to tell what his eyes are doing behind those sunglasses, but the rest of his expression - especially the slightly open mouth - suggests he might be staring at Aziraphale. Oh, dear, he really _must_ look a mess. 

"Y-yes, everything's fine," Crowley manages after a moment. Then he seems to get a grip on himself and grins. "Just call you angel, huh?"

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale crosses the room to turn down the stereo and tries to subtly fix his collar and bow tie while his back is turned. "It's a nice song."

"D'you listen to anything that didn't come out five decades ago, out of interest?"

Aziraphale glares at him, but he can't quite make it stick through his smile. He likes the way Crowley teases. There's never any malice in it, and it rather gives away how much attention he pays to the things Aziraphale likes.

"Did you come in here just to critique my music tastes?"

"Uh—" Suddenly Crowley seems awkward, shifting from foot to foot. "No, just, brought you something, if you want it."

Aziraphale belatedly realises that this whole time he's had one hand not quite behind his back, but certainly angled so it's not visible. He blinks, and then blinks again when Crowley finally brings it into view and offers him a handful of red and pink tulips, maybe four or five of them, rather small but such _lovely_ colours.

"Oh!"

"It's just, uh, they won't last into summer, you know," Crowley's saying - babbling, really. "And I wasn't really— I mean, I'm not really that into growing the vegetables, I was always hoping to do flowers, but it's not going to be financially viable for a while, but I thought I'd just try a few, you know, and then the damned _rabbits_ ate most of them - like they didn't have enough weeds to be going on with! - and these ones aren't all that great but I remember you said you liked tulips and I need the space to plant Summer crops anyway—"

"Crowley," Aziraphale interrupts, half laughing, half seized with such a potent rush of confusing emotion that it leaves him dizzy. He can't even remember when he mentioned liking tulips. How does Crowley do it? "They're lovely."

"Oh. Right then." Crowley hesitates, then hands the tulips over. "Well anyway. Just thought. Shame if they just wither up in the field."

"Thank you," Aziraphale says to the flowers, because he suddenly can't quite look at Crowley's face. "Did you want to stay for a cup of tea, or—"

"Nah— thanks— need to get back to the farm, lots to do—"

Crowley's already scrambling for the door. Aziraphale bites his lip.

"Maybe you'd like to come over one evening this week?" he suggests before he can lose his nerve. "I've a rather good bottle of wine that I haven't got around to opening—"

Crowley pauses with his hand on the door to glance back, and Aziraphale _really_ wishes he could see his eyes.

"Yeah," Crowley says, with that half-smile that means he's biting back the big, delighted grin he seems to feel self-conscious about. "That sounds good. Lemme see how things are looking in a couple of days. I'll call you—"

And then the smile flashes into a smirk.

"—_angel_," he finishes, and is gone before Aziraphale can sputter out more than a token protest.


	2. Summer

**Summer 4**

"'M thinking about chickens," Crowley announces, pretty much out of nowhere, over their third glass of wine.

It's not actually the strangest non-sequitur Crowley's come out with while drunk, but Aziraphale blinks at him anyway.

"Chickens?" he repeats, trying to follow the line of thought. They were just talking about corn, weren't they? And Crowley's conviction that planting a field of it is just _asking_ for trouble, because he has watched entirely too many horror films, apparently. Aziraphale's coming up blank on horror films involving chickens, though. "As in— you mean—"

He gives up.

"_Why_ are you thinking about chickens, dear?"

"Numbers aren't adding up," Crowley replies, nodding sagely. "I mean, 's fine, knew it would take a while to get going, I've got savings, 's just, it's hard to make much profit on the crops when 'm not producing them in bulk, but eggs, now..."

"Oh! You mean for the farm! Getting chickens for the farm!"

Crowley stares at him fuzzily.

"Well, yeah, what else would I—"

"I think that's a splendid idea," Aziraphale says quickly, except then his pesky brain catches up with him even through the comfortable haze of alcohol. "Although, ah, do you— do you _know_ anything about keeping chickens?"

Crowley huffs in an adorably grumpy way. He's taken his sunglasses off for once, and Aziraphale has spent half the evening trying not to just stare at his eyes. They're such an unusual colour, and so _expressive_ \- all of Crowley's feelings seem to live in his eyes, his face is like glass without the sunglasses to shield him. Aziraphale has a suspicion that's why he wears them in the first place.

He feels - honoured, and desperately _warmed_ \- by Crowley's decision to take them off tonight, as he lounges on Aziraphale's worn but comfortable sofa. He feels a _lot_, if he's honest, and he's still sorting through it, and he keeps looking at the tulips in their vase on the table, and he wonders if he should've joined Crowley on the sofa instead of taking his favourite chair.

"Marnie says it's easy," Crowley says, eyes all scrunched up with a mixture of defiant determination and deep, deep self-doubt. "Says they just need a coop and some space to run around, bit of feed when it's too wet for foraging—"

"Ye-es," Aziraphale replies doubtfully, because he likes Marnie, he does, but he also once saw her try to pet a bear. "But then, Marnie is very _experienced_ with livestock, you know—"

"You saying you don't think I can take care of chickens?" Crowley demands, sitting bolt upright and pointing one finger at Aziraphale accusingly. "That what you're saying?"

"I never said anything of the sort!" Aziraphale swats at his finger. Crowley snickers and sinks back into the sofa. "Just that perhaps you should do some research first, maybe spend some time on Marnie's ranch to get a feel for—"

"Nah," Crowley says, grinning and letting his head loll back on the cushions. "Already paid Robin to build me a coop."

"_Crowley_," Aziraphale sighs in sheer exasperation.

"_Aziraphale_," Crowley replies, still grinning. "If it doesn't work out, I can sell 'em on. Or make soup." His eyes suddenly widen and he glances around like he's worried about being overheard. "That was a joke, don't tell Marnie."

* * *

**Summer 6**

Crowley has only stopped into Pierre's to pick up a couple of basics and maybe, possibly, to see if there's any of that chocolate Aziraphale likes. For no reason. Definitely not to stash it away somewhere so the next time Aziraphale forgets he's run out until after the store's closed, Crowley can produce it with a flourish. Nope.

The last thing he wants or needs is to find himself in the middle of Small Town Drama, and initially he tries to tune it out. He's encountered Morris, manager of the local Joja Mart, exactly once, and that was enough for Crowley to know everything about him at a glance and resolve to avoid him entirely in the future. Now the unpleasant little man is sauntering around Pierre's, examining the shelves and commenting loudly on the superior quality and lower prices to be found in his own establishment. There are a few other people in the store, notably Leah and Jodi hovering near the fresh vegetables and Gus stocking up on ingredients. They all look uncomfortable, but Crowley can see Jodi glancing at the scrap of paper where she writes her weekly budget, biting her lip as Morris airily mentions a Saturday Sale on lentils.

It's utterly obnoxious and Crowley has half a mind to pick a fight with the wanker, but he grits his teeth and keeps browsing and pretends not to be listening, at least until Morris pauses by a special display near the till.

"What's this?" Morris asks sharply, scowling at the neat arrangement of jars.

"Coconut oil," Pierre replies, not even trying to hide his smug expression. "Local product, straight from the Calico Desert. And I _know_ you don't stock _that_ at Joja Mart, because the supplier has an exclusive contract with my store."

Crowley smirks to himself, impressed by Pierre's little coup. Morris's expression darkens into a disproportionate _rage_, then clears suddenly into a nasty smile.

"Well, then, I'll just have to buy these up, won't I?"

Pierre blinks. "All of them?"

"Indeed, all of them. If anyone wants some, they'll have to come to Joja Mart. They'll pay a little more, but it'll be worth it if they learn to come to me first."

"I won't sell them to you."

"If you don't, I'll just have to go straight to your supplier. I'm sure they'll see the good sense of contracting with a much more profitable and reliable retailer—"

"You can't do that," Crowley pipes up, no longer able to help himself. He leans casually against the shelves, his shopping basket dangling loosely from one hand. "Can't do either of those things, actually."

Morris whirls on him with a glare that could curdle milk and is clearly intended to intimidate. Crowley's seen better, much better. Crowley's been glared at by the best. Morris doesn't even come close. 

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Morris snaps. "This is a private conversation."

"That you're having at top volume in the middle of the general store."

Crowley tips his glasses down just a tiny fraction, peers over them at Morris, then pushes them back up, like what he sees doesn't interest him. It's a trick that's served him well over the years. It does a delightful job now of making Morris's face turn an unsightly puce.

"_Regardless_," Morris hisses, "it's none of your damn _business_, and you don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Crowley can't help it, he's _enjoying_ himself now. He hates to admit it, but he's missed this, putting someone on the spot and needling them into a foolish opening, then taking them apart piece by piece. "You're an official representative of the Joja Corporation Acquisitions and Supply Department, are you?"

The way Morris falters is _glorious_.

"What?"

"I mean, you can buy the stuff, I suppose," Crowley goes on with a shrug. "If Pierre feels like selling it to you. But you can't put it on your shelves. That'd be selling outside merchandise without a proper Acquisitions Licence, that would. And _that's_ a great big breach of regulations, kind of thing they come down hard on. Remember what happened to the Mineral Town branch?"

Morris clenches his fists and takes a step towards Crowley. There's practically steam coming out of his ears.

"_Well_," he spits, then pauses like he hasn't quite thought this far ahead, which only seems to make him angrier. "_Well_, I'll just have a word with head office, then, about the supplier—"

"Wouldn't recommend it. The Acquisitions bunch work on commission. They'll see it as trespassing on their turf. Not to mention, come on, tiny little local supplier like that, no way they can keep up with the demand from a chain like Joja. Acquistions'll laugh you right out of the room and then—" Crowley grins like a snake, "—they'll put a _note on your file_."

Oh yeah, there it is, the _moment_. The moment where Morris realises he's outmatched, outwitted, and outclassed. The moment where he realises he's in _way_ out of his depth. The moment where he has to decide whether to beat a retreat with what dignity he can muster, or to lose what's left of his cool. Crowley loves this moment more than he loves the buzz of his first glass of wine, and right now he can enjoy it guilt-free, in the face of an opponent who deserves nothing less than complete humiliation.

"You," Morris snarls, "should learn to keep your _nose_ out of other people's business."

With a flounce that would make an opera singer proud, he storms out of the shop. Crowley turns to watch him go, raising a hand in a mocking little wave, only to freeze when he sees Aziraphale hovering by the door, staring at him. Crowley has absolutely no idea how long he's been there, how much of it he heard.

"_Well_," says Pierre, and Crowley swings guiltily around, only to find that Pierre is positively _beaming_ at him. "Mr Crowley, can I offer you a discount today?"

* * *

**Summer 9**

Crowley hasn't been _avoiding_ Aziraphale, exactly, he's just been _very busy_ with the farm and the new chickens and, you know, everything. It's completely reasonable. He may have forgotten that he doesn't have the comfortable anonymity of a city apartment here, that everyone knows where he lives.

Which is how Aziraphale finds him leaning in the door of the new chicken coop, glaring at its occupants, and nearly gives him heart attack by clearing his throat politely to announce his presence.

Crowley makes an utterly undignified spluttering sound, almost falls over despite being propped up against the door frame, and tries desperately to plaster something approaching a nonchalant smile onto his face as he turns around.

"Hi," he says. He thinks the expression is slightly more manic than he'd intended. "Didn't see you there."

"Clearly." 

Aziraphale _is_ smiling, eyes sparkling with amusement, and something that has been clenched up tight inside Crowley suddenly lets go. He's been thinking— he's half-expected that Aziraphale would look at him differently. _See_ him differently. Which is why he's been avoiding him, except he _hasn't_ been avoiding him, okay, he's just been _busy_—

Crowley thinks he may have been a bit of an idiot.

"What's up?"

"Well, mostly I just wanted to make sure you know about the Luau—"

"Oh, yeah, got it, checked my mail this week and everything," Crowley announces proudly. Aziraphale laughs. He really likes Aziraphale's laugh. "Any ideas what I should bring? I've got eggs now, but—"

"Ah, no, you probably don't want to drop a whole egg into the potluck." Aziraphale looks past him with some interest. "So you have the chickens, do you?"

Crowley scowls, remembering why he was glaring into the coop in the first place.

"Yeah, two of 'em, the feathery bastards."

Aziraphale's eyebrows go up in that adorable, questioning, slightly sarcastic way.

"Fallen out already, have you?"

"They've _stolen_ my _cat_," Crowley pouts.

Aziraphale stares at him. Crowley gestures him to come to the door and look inside. Aziraphale does so, and Crowley realises belatedly that he should probably have moved out of the way, because now they're both crammed into the door frame and whatever cologne Aziraphale wears is just the most perfect scent for him, makes Crowley think of books and woodsmoke and old leather, and distracts him so completely that he has to wrench his attention back to Aziraphale's exclamation.

"Oh, my, that is the _sweetest_ thing—"

"It's not _sweet_," Crowley snarls, in blatant defiance of the fact that the (not as small as previously, but still small) orange kitten cuddled up to two clucking chickens actually might be the cutest thing on the planet. "He doesn't want to sleep on my _bed_ anymore. Thinks they're his mums."

Aziraphale makes a delighted, soppy noise. Then he glances at Crowley and laughs.

"Are you jealous of your chickens, Crowley?"

"_Yes_!" Crowley glares at the pair of them. "Should've known better when I named them—"

"Oh? What are their names?"

Crowley bites his tongue. He. He really needs to stop naming animals things he doesn't want to say aloud to other people. Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. Crowley sighs in defeat.

"Hastur and Ligur," he mutters. "They're, uh. They were. Coworkers. Bastards, both of them."

"I'm sure there are things you can offer little Freddie that they can't," Aziraphale says, as if naming chickens after people you don't like is a perfectly normal thing to do. "You know. Cans of tuna. Catnip. Table scraps."

Crowley pushes his sunglasses up so he can give Aziraphale a long, assessing look.

"Are you suggesting I _bribe_ my cat back into the house?"

"Well, yes, my dear, I'm given to understand that's how cats _work_." Aziraphale smiles a sweet and wicked smile. "And speaking of bribery... a friend sent me an absolutely lovely bottle of port, and it would be a shame to open it on my own..."

"You don't have to bribe _me_, angel," Crowley protests, and only realises when it's too late that he didn't put nearly enough mockery in the nickname, that devoid of its joke status, it comes out far too soft and affectionate. "Uh—"

"I don't _have_ to," Aziraphale replies serenely, "but it's rather good fun, isn't it?" He smiles, and it devastates Crowley on a level he's completely unprepared for. "I do like it when you call me that."

"Ngk," says Crowley.

"See you this evening, then?" Aziraphale goes on, like he hasn't just casually reset Crowley higher functions, and heads for the farm gate with a wave.

* * *

**Summer 11**

Aziraphale loves the Luau, and it's not _just_ about the food, all right, although that's certainly a big draw. It's the way the weather's always so perfectly summery at this time of year, the way everyone crowds onto the beach for no more complicated excuse than to eat and drink and talk and enjoy the day. It feels domestic and relaxing, almost like a big, sprawling family getting together, enjoying each other's company around the fond bickering and occasional splash as Sam, Sebastian, or Abigail pushes one of the others into the water.

(Sebastian appears to be winning this year, having dunked both of the others - twice, in Sam's case - while remaining completely dry himself. Aziraphale doesn't think that's going to last, given the look in Abigail's eye as she wades back onto shore.)

"Good grief, angel, where did you get that hat?" Comes a familiar voice from his left, and Aziraphale's already smiling as he turns. "Nicked it from Christopher Robin, did you?"

"It does a wonderful job of keeping my face from getting sunburned," Aziraphale replies. He also thinks the broad-brimmed straw hat looks rather fetching on him, and for reasons he doesn't choose to examine too closely, he put slightly more thought than usual into his clothing choices today. "My dear, you're going to boil alive in all that."

Crowley is terribly overdressed, wearing his usual jacket and boots even in the hot weather. At least his sunglasses are appropriate for once.

"Nah, I run cold." Crowley shrugs, but Aziraphale thinks he can see the slightest hint of sweat at his hairline. He glances over at where Marnie is stirring the enormous soup pot. "So are we really expected to eat that? After everyone's just chucked whatever into it?"

Aziraphale laughs at the horror in his voice.

"Don't worry, Marnie won't let anyone put anything too awful into it. The bulk of it's just the same recipe every year, anyway, and we always have a chat about what we're going to bring. I've added some truffle oil, should go well with Leah's rosemary. Did you contribute in the end?"

"Brought some onions," Crowley says. "Didn't grow them myself or anything but I figured you can't go wrong with onions."

"Oh, lovely."

There is a shriek from the jetty. They both look over, to see Abigail crowing with delight and Sebastian's sodden black hair plastered over his face as he bobs around indignantly in the water.

"Remind me not to go over there," Crowley mutters.

"I shouldn't worry, it's just a game the three of them play. No-one's going to push us in the water." Aziraphale considers the sparkling waves lapping at the sand. "Although, it does look rather enticing, doesn't it?"

He sits down on the sand and slips his shoes and socks off.

"What are you doing?" Crowley demands, towering over him like a confused scarecrow.

"What does it look like?" Aziraphale carefully rolls his trouser cuffs up to just below his knees. "I'm going for a paddle. Care to join me?"

"Definitely not," Crowley replies at once, slightly dampening some of Aziraphale's enthusiasm, but not enough to change his mind.

"Suit yourself." 

He stands up and walks to the water's edge, sighing with delight as the cool-but-not-cold wavelets ripple over his toes. He wades around for a few minutes, enjoying the refreshing splash of the water, but it's not all that entertaining without company, especially when Crowley's just standing there awkwardly by himself the whole time. Just as he's about to head back up the beach, he spots something lying in the clear water, half-buried by sand. Aziraphale stoops to examine it, smiles with delight when he sees what it is, and carefully digs it out of the sand before heading back to Crowley's side.

"That better not be something alive," Crowley complains as he approaches. "Or something slimy you're going to try and put down my shirt—"

"Really, Crowley, would I?" Aziraphale asks, trying not to get distracted by the thought of getting his hands anywhere near Crowley's shirt. "Look, isn't it pretty?"

The rainbow shells that wash up around here are beautiful by default, but this one is particularly vibrant, still wet enough that it's glimmering like a gemstone. Crowley bends his head to look, and then actually pushes his sunglasses out of the way to see it better.

"'S very pretty," Crowley admits. "You gonna keep it?"

"I thought you might like it." 

Aziraphale offers him the shell; Crowley takes it hesitantly, fingers brushing across Aziraphale's palm. Aziraphale is suddenly terribly overheated again despite his recent dip, and Crowley's definitely looking rather hot under the collar.

"For heaven's sake, you must take your jacket off at least," Aziraphale says, wiping his damp hands on his trousers and trying not sound too eager. "I don't want to have to treat you for heatstroke."

Crowley hesitates, but then sighs and starts to shrug out of his jacket.

"Fine. Only because I don't to ruin your day, though."

He's wearing a black (of course) t-shirt underneath, tight enough that Aziraphale can get a very definite idea of the contours of his torso. Without the jacket, it's also a lot more obvious how, well, _form-fitting_ his jeans are.

"Oh," Aziraphale says faintly. "_Thank you_, my dear."

* * *

**Summer 15**

It's the first time Crowley has invited him over to spend the evening at his place, and Aziraphale is _ridiculously_ nervous.

He _knows_ it's mostly just because Crowley's been sorting the place out, didn't have enough furniture for a while, hadn't finished decorating. He knows, because that's what Crowley said when he issued the invitation. But at the same time, it feels like a wonderful, terrifying entry ticket to the parts of Crowley he keeps hidden and closed off. Because Aziraphale is fairly certain that even if the farmhouse had been perfect from the start, it still would have taken this long for Crowley to invite him in.

He spends far too long fussing over his clothes, wanting to dress up without looking like he's dressing up. His bed ends up covered in discarded shirts and bow ties. He eventually settles on what is, if he's honest, basically his normal outfit, except he's chosen a silky, sky-blue bow tie and trousers that are just the tiniest bit smarter and sharper than his usual comfortable slacks.

He spends even longer deciding what to bring with him, settling in the end on a simple bottle of wine. He knows Crowley doesn't go for chocolates the way he does, knows that anything too fancy or too extravagant will make him uncomfortable. It's frustrating, in a way, because Aziraphale wants to shower him with lovely things, but at the same time, he has a feeling that sooner or later he'll figure out what Crowley really _likes_, and then he'll be able to indulge his whims as much as he likes.

It's not quite dark when he reaches Eden Farm, and he pauses to look out over Crowley's hard work. It's looking much clearer, much neater, with patches of crops and the new chicken coop and a shed that Crowley keeps referring to as _the prototype development department_, which Aziraphale is fairly certain is just where he's been experimenting with Things To Do With Eggs.

The windows of Crowley's house are glowing pleasantly in the dusk. Aziraphale climbs the steps and knocks briskly on the door, swallowing to hide the flutter in his chest.

Crowley opens the door so abruptly that it's almost like he's been hovering behind it waiting for the knock. Aziraphale can't help smiling at him, and Crowley smiles back like his face doesn't know how to do anything else.

They settle on Crowley's new pair of sofas, arranged at right angles to each other, nice and cosy if they both sit at the nearest ends, sharing a table for their wine glasses. Crowley has a lot of adventures with chickens to recount (who knew they were so crafty and so vindictive?), and Aziraphale has been having an interesting week trying to figure out Abigail's headaches, although the discovery that she's been spending up to twelve hours a day playing the same video game obsessively has gone a long way to solving that mystery.

"I've been wondering," Aziraphale says at last, when they've drunk one bottle and opened the next and Crowley is lying back against the sofa cushions all loose and easy limbs. "And you don't have to answer, my dear, I can tell it's a touchy subject, but... what was it you did before you came here?"

Crowley tenses, as Aziraphale feared he might, and he stares at his discarded sunglasses like he wishes he hadn't taken them off, and Aziraphale puts his glass down and reaches out and presses his hand briefly over Crowley's, just long enough to get a startled look, the beginnings of a blush.

"You don't have to answer," he repeats. "But I very much doubt it's as terrible as you seem to think it is."

Crowley snorts and fiddles with his wine glass and chews his lip, but finally, reluctantly, he does speak.

"Worked for the Joja Co Legal Department."

Aziraphale nods; it fits with what Crowley's let slip so far.

"That doesn't seem so bad—?"

"Oh, angel, you have no _idea_," Crowley says, the words spilling out of him, his knuckles suddenly white. "I mean, it was fine when we were going after other corporations. They have lawyers just like us, they know how the game's played. I had _fun_ with those, wiping the floor with their guys, but..."

He closes his eyes. Aziraphale regrets asking, just for a moment, until he goes on.

"It was the other ones. The employee compensation cases we had to fight against. The little local stores that accidentally used a trademarked name for something. And then there was Mineral Town..."

Aziraphale makes up his mind, gets to his feet, moves to the other sofa and sits down next to Crowley. He doesn't crowd into his space, but he sees the way Crowley's eyes fly open when he feels the extra weight on the cushions, sees the way he swallows hard and looks away.

"I remember that," Aziraphale says gently. "The local Joja Mart was trying to help local producers, wasn't it? Had a farmer's market once a week."

"Yeah," Crowley mutters, crossing and uncrossing his legs, digging his shoulders deeper into the sofa cushions. "And we wiped the floor with them. Fired everyone, closed down the branch. That's when I thought— that's when I started thinking about leaving."

"I can understand. It must be hard—"

"It's not, though, that's the thing." It comes out like a confession, and Crowley's face is like someone who's stepping onto the executioner's block. "I _loved_ it, always did. Playing the game, winning the argument, getting all the bits lined up and then just... letting loose. Even when all I was doing was hurting the little people. Couldn't let go of the thrill."

"But you did," Aziraphale replies, almost overwhelmed by too many emotions to name. "You did let go. You left."

Crowley glances at him, uncertain and vulnerable and hopeful and afraid. Aziraphale reaches out, takes his hand, squeezes it.

"I 'spose," Crowley says reluctantly. "Could've done it sooner—"

"My dear," Aziraphale says, squeezing again before he forces himself to let go. "We _all_ could have done the right thing sooner. That you did it at all is a victory."

* * *

**Summer 19**

Crowley is beginning to suspect that the woman on the cooking show has a very different definition of _easy_ from the one he's used to. The charred and smoking remnants of the first chocolate cake are still outside in a bucket. The sullen wreckage of the second is staring at him accusingly from the bottom of the pan, a solid inch of rubbery brown substance that has refused to rise even slightly. He thinks his oven might be cursed.

Crowley glumly empties the entire thing into the kitchen bin. He's used up all the chocolate now, so he'll have to go and get more if he wants to make a third attempt. He glares at the recipe notes he took down. Should've just gone with something off the internet, serves him right for being seized by impulse while he was channel-flipping earlier. Even better, should've just _ordered_ something, there's a bakery in Zuzu City that does the most decadent things with whipped cream...

There's a knock at the door and Crowley starts as guiltily as if he's in the middle of something illicit, because he recognises the knock (already) and he does _not_ want Aziraphale to see the disaster area that is currently his kitchen. Or make any guesses about what he's been doing.

He opens the door just enough to sidle himself into the gap, doing his best to look nonchalant, at least until he sees Aziraphale's face.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Oh, I— it's nothing," Aziraphale says quickly, forcing a smile and wringing his hands. "I mean, it is _something_ but it's not— I just need a favour—"

Then he pauses, sniffing the air with concern.

"Is something burning?"

"Not anymore," Crowley says, very deliberately not looking in the direction of the First Attempt. "What do you need?"

Aziraphale drops his gaze, and Crowley becomes acutely aware that he is still wearing the novelty apron he dug out of a box earlier, and that despite this, he has flour on his shirt.

And, if he's honest, probably a certain mad look in his eyes.

"I need to go into the city in a couple of weeks' time," Aziraphale admits as if it's difficult for him to say. "I was wondering if you'd—"

"Give you a lift? Of course." Crowley's relieved it's something so easy, not quite sure why Aziraphale's making such a big deal of it. "I've got a few errands to run—"

"Well, the thing is," Aziraphale interrupts with a sigh, "I'll have to be there quite early, and I'll have to stay until close of business, I should think. I can't ask you to make two trips, so I was wondering if you would mind terribly running me up there in the morning, and I'll make my own way back—"

"Whoa, wait, slow down. You need to be there all day?"

"Yes, I've some... personal business."

Crowley's eyebrows shoot up. He knows an evasive answer when he hears one, and his every instinct is to start probing for more information, dig the truth out little by little. He shoves his every instinct into a lead-lined case and kicks it off a metaphorical jetty.

"Okay, I can entertain myself in the city for a day, easy. I'll drop you off and bring you back after."

Aziraphale's eyes dart to Crowley's face, hesitant.

"That's— it would be awfully kind of you, but I don't want to put you to the trouble—"

Crowley shrugs, already thinking of errands to run, a few friends to drop in on, maybe a nice lunch at his favourite restaurant... the thought triggers another.

"It's fine," he says, "like I said, need to go to the city myself for a few things. And we could have dinner, after you're done for the day."

The way Aziraphale looks at him then is... well... if he's honest, it's exactly the look Crowley was hoping to get for casually offering up a homemade chocolate cake: surprise and delight and gratitude and something altogether too warm and fond for Crowley to think about it in any detail if he doesn't want to turn as red as one of his home-grown tomatoes.

"That would be lovely," Aziraphale says after a moment. "I— thank you, my dear."

* * *

**Summer 25**

"Did you know you can order bees online?" Crowley says, scrolling through his phone as Aziraphale returns to their corner table with their drinks.

"... bees?" Aziraphale repeats, like he's not quite sure he heard correctly over the chatter in the pub.

"Yeah." Crowley's still scrolling, fascinated. "They sell them by weight. Like sweets. Angry, angry sweets. Imagine forgetting you ordered them and tearing the box open..."

There is a long pause.

"So you can order a pound of bees—"

"Yes! Exactly! Look at this!"

Crowley holds the phone out. Aziraphale squints at the screen.

"All right," he says, reluctantly accepting that Crowley is telling the truth, "but _why_?"

"So people can start their own hives, of course." 

Crowley pockets the phone and reaches for his glass. Aziraphale has selected a white wine for once, and as soon as it gets near his nose, he can tell he's going to love it.

"Oh." Aziraphale looks mildly perplexed. "I suppose I imagined you just sort of... built a hive and the bees moved in on their own."

"Well, yeah, I mean, if you've got a natural swarm nearby, you can tempt them into new living quarters, but I've been looking around the farm and I'm not having any luck." Crowley takes a sip; it's perfectly chilled and just as good as he thought it would be. "I've checked every fallen log and tree stump, and all I've got is squirrels."

(Well. He did think, at once point, he caught sight of some kind of strange green creature that squeaked and bounced away, but he can't figure out what kind of woodland animal it could be so he's pretty much decided it was just a rat that had been rolling in paint or something. A very round rat...)

"So— are you intending to keep bees?" Aziraphale asks, and it occurs to Crowley belatedly that perhaps he should have led with that detail.

"Um, thinking about it. Because, you know, the flowers."

Aziraphale gives him a Look that says very clearly that he hasn't drunk nearly enough to be this incoherent. Crowley grimaces. It happens sometimes when he's a long way down a thought train and incapable of returning to his point of departure without several complicated manoeuvres. He pauses, trying to order his thoughts.

"Oh, wait, I see," says Aziraphale, and Crowley blinks at him hopefully, because Aziraphale is surprisingly good at intercepting the runaway express that is Crowley's brain with a new idea. "Yes, you said you wanted to grow flowers, didn't you? Back when— but the margins aren't good enough for small fields, you said. So you're thinking—"

"Artisanal honey!" Crowley finishes for him triumphantly, and he's so pleased that Aziraphale gets it, he beams across the table like an idiot. "Different flavours with different flowers! People love that stuff."

Aziraphale stares at him for so long that Crowley wonders if it's a terrible idea, if Aziraphale knows something about the economics of beekeeping that he hasn't uncovered after several hours of internet browsing.

"You'd need to taste-test it," Aziraphale says abruptly. "Make sure it's— the good stuff."

Crowley starts to laugh, smothers it behind his hand.

"Yeah, that's true, not much of a honey aficionado myself, though. Might need to get someone in to help out." He raises an eyebrow and grins. "Don't suppose you know anyone?"

* * *

**Summer 28**

"So we're going to stand here on this freezing beach—"

"It's not freezing, it's a perfectly nice night."

"—and stare at the big black bit over there that is apparently the sea, only we can't see it in the dark—"

"Don't be ridiculous, the stars are bright enough that you can see them reflecting in the waves."

"—waiting for a horde of slimy, venomous buggers to ooze on up to our ankles—"

"_Crowley!_" Aziraphale shoves him very gently, not enough to do more than make him sway in place on the sand, grinning the whole while. "If you keep on like that I won't share my secret stash with you."

Crowley perks up, peering at him in the light of the candle-lanterns that have been set around the docks.

"Secret stash? Of what?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, would it?"

Crowley looks him up and down and up again, and Aziraphale feels a bit warm under the collar, even though, despite his protests, it actually is a bit chilly out here.

"Where exactly are you even keeping—"

"Oh, look, they're sending the boat out, it's time."

Aziraphale grabs Crowley's hand in the darkness and starts to lead him away. Crowley makes an incoherent noise that sounds rather like he's gargling with glue, and then finally manages to speak after a few steps.

"We're going the wrong way, angel."

"Hush, trust me." 

Aziraphale guides him along the shore, over the small streamlet, and into the quieter end of the sandy beach, where there are rockpools to navigate carefully around.

"Are you going to murder me and feed my body to the crabs?" Crowley asks plaintively. "Because if you'd told me, I'd have worn my good suit—"

Aziraphale snorts a laugh and brings them successfully to his planned destination, a lovely soft swell of dunes right on the end of the strand, isolated from the rest of the beach by the rockpools, and blissfully unoccupied, just like it always is. The picnic basket is right where he left it in the little crevice between two rocks. He lets go of Crowley's hand to pull out a thick tartan rug.

Crowley is staring at the basket with his mouth slightly open. Aziraphale smiles innocently at him and thrusts the rug into his hands.

"Lay that out over there, would you?"

"Wh— b— uh— what's all this, then?" Crowley manages. He flails rather ineffectively with the rug, to the point where Aziraphale's about to take pity on him, but then he does manage to get it spread over the soft sand dune.

"I like to come over here to watch the jellies," Aziraphale replies, bringing the basket over. He makes himself comfortable on the rug. All right, perhaps it's a _little_ chilly, here at the end of summer, but at least he came prepared. He pulls another warm blanket out of the basket and drapes it around his shoulders. "I don't know, I enjoy the build-up with everyone else on the beach, but when it actually _happens_... people ooh and ah for a bit and then they get distracted and start gossiping, and I just want to sit quietly and have a drink and watch—"

Crowley flops down on the rug next to him in an awkward sprawl of limbs.

"You have booze in there?"

"I have a rather nice Bordeaux, actually," Aziraphale sniffs. "And some hot cocoa. And biscuits. And chocolate. Maybe a small cheese board, some crackers—"

Crowley howls with laughter, which Aziraphale pretends to take very great affront over.

"Well, then, you can't have any."

"Do you seriously pack all that up for yourself every year—"

"Well." Aziraphale darts a glance at him. "I may have made more of an effort this year. Since I have company."

Crowley rolls half-towards him, face too shadowed by the starlight to be readable.

"I'm honoured," he says softly.

Aziraphale busies himself pouring the wine. Crowley sits up to take his glass, their fingers brushing as they both make sure not to drop it in the darkness. A glimmer of something catches in the corner of his eye, and he turns quickly towards the sea, letting out a little gasp of delight.

"Oh _look_, they're here!"

"Holy shit," Crowley says as he takes in what seem to be hundreds of softly glowing lanterns bobbing gently in the waves. "There's so many of them."

"Even more than last year," Aziraphale breathes, taking in the sight as the jellies drift back and forth. "Oh, I do love them so. They're like—"

"Stars." Crowley takes a drink, still mesmerised by the glowing sea. "It's like half the sky's come down for a swim."

He shivers as a breeze carries the first touch of autumn to their exposed skin. Aziraphale shifts a bit closer and drapes the other end of the blanket over his shoulders. Crowley doesn't even lodge a token protest.

"It's amazing to me that they come back every year, to the same place, at the same time," Aziraphale murmurs, taking a sip of his own wine, torn between the beautiful sight in front of him and the one sitting by his side. "It's almost like a miracle."

Crowley exhales, and tugs the blanket closer around himself, and smiles sideways at Aziraphale.

"Kind of miracle I could get behind."


	3. Fall

**Fall 6**

Aziraphale is rather full up with the joys of autumn as he walks down the road to Eden Farm. Crisp cool mornings, golden sun-filled afternoons, the riot of colour crowning every tree, and the gentle sense of the land beneath his feet preparing to sleep for a season. Hot cocoa with a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg, lovely warming soups, soon it will be scarf weather and he's already got his softest woollen gloves in his coat pockets. The leaves are already drifting down from the trees to lie on the dew-gemmed grass; in a few weeks they'll be a crunchy, whispering carpet of reds and golds and yellows and browns, and Aziraphale will have to resist the urge to throw himself into them, because two years ago he learned a very important lesson about hedgehogs and their sleeping habits.

Stardew Valley always has the most perfect seasons, he thinks as he reaches the gate of the farm. Before he moved here he suffered through the long grey days and perpetual, chilly dampness of the city. There were still days like this, but they were rarer, and there were never as many trees to walk beneath. Yet another reason he doesn't care to go back. It's impossible not to love this idyll of autumn, impossible not to want to drink it all in like breathing in the clear air with its little hint of frost—

Smoke hits the back of his throat and he coughs and splutters. The source becomes quickly apparent. Crowley has built a bonfire out in one of the newly cleared parts of the farm, and it's smouldering like it's been loaded with wet rags. Crowley is in the process of emptying a bucket of leaves onto it. About half of them flutter away on the hot updrafts, and Crowley swears viciously and creatively, snatching at them like they're runaway butterflies.

Aziraphale watches with bemused fascination for minute or two, then makes his way over to the half-hearted blaze.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" Crowley gestures wildly to the rest of the farm. "Trying to burn these goddamn leaves!"

"I see that," Aziraphale says mildly. He waves smoke away from his face. "Any particular reason?"

Crowley stops, and it's no exaggeration to say that he _stops_, every muscle in him going still at the same time as he stares at Aziraphale.

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Crowley says finally. "Burn them?"

Aziraphale looks around, takes in the evidence. Crowley has a rake, but it's the wrong kind of rake for leaves, and it looks suspiciously like he's discarded it and been trying to shovel them into the bucket with the spade he uses for turning the soil. And then emptying the bucket onto the flames. Probably along with a whole lot of damp earth and other soggy detritus, which accounts for the bonfire's lacklustre performance.

"Well," Aziraphale says, each word very careful and measured. He's trying very hard not to laugh, hands clenched in his pockets, feeling himself shudder with suppressed giggles every few seconds. "I suppose if you're desperate to keep your lawn immaculate, yes, but it's better to just leave them anywhere you don't need to keep clear."

Crowley looks completely flummoxed.

"But then there would be leaves everywhere," he says like he's trying to explain something to a child. "You're not supposed to— everyone always rakes the leaves up in the city—"

"To keep them off the pavements and roads, yes, otherwise they're a hazard. There's no need for that here."

"But then what happens to them?"

Aziraphale bites his lip to keep it from twitching. Crowley sounds so _confused_. He's proved resourceful enough when it comes to figuring things out as he goes along, far more comfortable with modern technology than Aziraphale ever has been, quick to research what he doesn't know and find out the best way to approach the situation. It's just that sometimes, like anyone in an unfamiliar environment, he stumbles over an assumption so basic that no-one's thought to explain it, and it doesn't occur to him to look it up.

"They just rot away into the soil eventually," Aziraphale explains, voice slightly strained from the effort of keeping a straight face. "Gives it lots of— lots of nutrients. Makes humus, you know."

Crowley gapes.

"What, with the— the chickpeas and the garlic—?"

And Aziraphale can't hold it in anymore, even though he presses both hands against his mouth to try. The laughter bubbles out of him like a volcanic eruption of mirth, and he ends up bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as his eyes stream.

"_Aziraphale_," Crowley says dangerously, "are you having me on? Because I've been out here for _hours_ and I am not in the mood—"

The thought of Crowley spending all morning trying to clear an acre of land by shovelling up leaves by the bucketful does nothing to improve Aziraphale's situation.

"Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale swallows his merriment with desperate gulps, straightening up and shaking his head desperately.

"I'm not," he protests, "I'm _not_, it's just, oh _Crowley_—"

Crowley's mouth draws into a flat line. Aziraphale gets a hold of himself and reaches out to pat Crowley on the arm.

"Put the fire out," he says. "Come inside. I'll make some tea."

"'S my house," Crowley grumbles, but he drops the bucket and stomps on the fire a couple of times, which is all it takes for the poor thing to give up the ghost completely.

"Yes, but I know where the tea is and how to boil the kettle, and I think you need to sit down and do a bit of reading."

Crowley scowls, but Aziraphale can see the beginnings of resigned amusement in the lines around his mouth.

"Is this like the whole business with the sea urchins?" he asks.

"A little bit, my dear, yes. Come on. You'll see the funny side once you've had a chance to catch your breath."

* * *

**Fall 9**

The drive to Zuzu City is quiet, which Crowley wasn't expecting. Normally they never run out of things to talk about. It's one of the reasons he likes spending time with Aziraphale, one of the reasons he spends so _much_ time with Aziraphale, one of the reasons he feels the way he does about Aziraphale—

He pushes that thought to one side - not hard, just a gentle shove, because although he's been working his way up to it for a while, he's not quite ready to get there yet.

Aziraphale is quiet because he's nervous, that much is clear. He's clutching a thick folder of papers, and he's dressed in an actual _suit_, which Crowley has been selflessly refraining from teasing him about. He's also sticking to the speed limit and hasn't put his usual mixtape on, opting instead for that station Aziraphale always has his radio tuned to.

"So where do you want me to drop you off?" Crowley asks as they take the exit for the city centre.

Aziraphale sighs.

"The courthouse," he admits, which does not particularly surprise Crowley, who is extremely familiar with the particular suit-and-anxiety combo of someone about to engage in a legal dispute. "Are you sure you want to spend the day—"

"Got my itinerary all figured out," Crowley interrupts. "I'll pick you up when you're done. Then I'm taking you to dinner. Right?"

Aziraphale gives him a lovely, wan smile.

"I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it."

Crowley passes a perfectly acceptable day in the city. He even drops in on his ex-coworkers (unannounced and at the most inconvenient time he can think of, of course) so he can regale them all with the life-satisfaction to be found in returning to the soil, at least until Ligur throws a stress toy at him.

Aziraphale looks tired, frustrated, and wrung-out when he gets into the car, but the anxiety is visibly gone as he sinks into the Bentley's passenger seat with a sigh of relief.

"Well that's that over with," he says. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yep. Saw some people, did some shopping." Crowley deliberately doesn't glance back at the large cake box carefully wedged into place behind the front seats, but Aziraphale looks anyway, and Crowley can't help grinning at his delighted noise when he sees the bakery logo. "Put in an order for two dozen trees, had lunch at a little Greek place on—"

"Wait, what? Trees?"

"Fruit trees. Saplings. Thought an orchard would be a good use of all that space over on the west side of the farm. They'll be arriving in two weeks."

"But you haven't _cleared_ that side of the farm yet."

"Nothing like a deadline to get the motivation going." Crowley's so busy laughing at Aziraphale's expression that he almost misses the turning he wants, and has to cut across lanes to a chorus of honks and beeps. "Plus I've got Alex half-convinced that chopping wood is better than weights, won't take much to tempt him into helping out."

"_Is_ it better than weights?"

"Hell if know, but that boy spends too much time in his room with his muscle mags, in my opinion."

"That's kind of you." Aziraphale says softly, failing to hide a smile from Crowley's sideways glance. "I saw you talking to Shane the other day, as well. It's not easy to get through his shell."

Crowley mumbles something, feeling his ears turn red at being called _kind_, and seizes with relief on the sight of a particular sign up ahead.

"There we are, I'll just pull the car around—"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale gasps, exactly as wide-eyed and flabbergasted as Crowley hoped. "You cannot possibly be taking me to dinner _here_—"

"Why not? Don't like it? Seems like exactly your sort of thing." It's billed as _fusion_, but it's the kind of fusion where they have specialist chefs for each of the different cuisines on offer, and eye-watering prices to match. "Lots of different things to try, they've got five different tasting menus and a la carte desserts—"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale repeats, half-scandalised, half-breathless. "I really can't let you—"

"Oh? So I'm eating on my own, then, am I?" Crowley challenges, eyebrow raised as he turns them neatly into the carpark and slides the Bentley into a customer-only space. "Won't be as fun, but if you insist on waiting in the car..."

Aziraphale sputters like a blocked tap. He's turned quite red, which wasn't exactly in Crowley's game plan, but he thinks it's a good kind of blush, from the way Aziraphale's looking at him.

"Well, I suppose if you put it like that..."

Crowley grins triumphantly, and pretends not to see the way Aziraphale rolls his eyes as they get out of the car. He loses some of his swagger a few seconds later, when Aziraphale loops one arm through his, and smiles at him so brightly it's rather like looking directly into the sun.

"Don't think I won't find a way to pay you back for this," he murmurs.

Crowley swallows hard and concentrates on not tripping over his own feet as they head for the restaurant door.

* * *

**Fall 11**

Aziraphale is sitting by his window, watching the rain stream down the glass, sipping a mug of tea and toying with the pages of a book he hasn't actually been reading for the last hour or so.

Aziraphale is thinking about friendship.

He'd say he's someone who makes friends easily, and it's true, up to a point. He's certainly become very good at the casual, day-to-day sort of friendship, where he remembers everyone's name and people nod at him as he walks down the street. Even when he lived in the city, he knew all his neighbours, and they knew him.

(That ended up being part of why he had to move, of course.)

He's good at trivia, is the thing, and it's not so hard to train yourself to treat the minutiae of people's lives as trivia, as a quiz to be sprung on you at any moment, a challenge to surpass. It's an attitude he's discovered is best kept to himself. People tend to mix up _trivia_ and _trivial_ and get offended. Maybe they're right, Aziraphale thinks sometimes. His particular way of building and maintaining friendships does come off as awfully cold, if you break it down to its core parts. Like a set of instructions he's learned by heart over the years, a code he's figured out the key to, but will never read intuitively.

(It's not that he doesn't care. It's not that he's faking the warmth and the concern for his friends. It's that his mind has always run a thousand miles a minute somewhere up in the clouds, and he had to teach himself to pay attention to everything that was happening on the ground. It's that even now, after decades of practice, when most of it is automatic, he sometimes has to remind himself to ask, _how are you, how's your family, did you ever take that holiday?_)

He'd say he's someone who makes friends easily, and it's true, and he's won over everyone in Pelican Town by now, even the odd fellow who lives in the tower to the west. They like him, and he likes them. He's comfortable. He's settled into it like a warm bath. He's learned their stories and their rituals and he's made his best effort at matching their steps and it's enough to make him feel like this is a place he will stay.

It's not enough to make him feel at home.

Crowley does that, with a smile, with a few words, with gentle teasing. Crowley is easy to talk to and has nothing to say about the weather and if Aziraphale forgets to ask how his day was, he either doesn't care, or interrupts to tell him anyway. Crowley seems to understand people intuitively, respond instinctively to Shane's depression and Alex's self-image issues and Sebastian's sense of estrangement. And yet he's blunt and brusque and says whatever's in his head and rambles in odd directions and once loudly told Mayor Lewis to "find your own shorts" in the middle of a crowded pub, before storming out.

(And yet Lewis seems to like him very much indeed, openly hopes he'll stay in Pelican Town now, a far cry from those first uncertain weeks.)

Aziraphale hasn't loved very often in his life, not in the specific, demanding, breathtaking way that comes from finding that soul-deep spark of _connection_ with another person. He thinks of it as rather a rare event for him, something to be approached cautiously lest it be scared away, something to be handled gently lest it break.

He doesn't want to scare Crowley away. He doesn't want to break this golden gleaming warmth between them, this precious gift of easy evenings in each other's company, of laughter, of trust, of honesty. He doesn't want to sacrifice friendship, real friendship, on the altar of asking for too much.

It doesn't mean he doesn't hope. It doesn't mean he doesn't _flirt_. It doesn't mean he doesn't count every time he catches Crowley's eyes on him, every time Crowley touches him, every time Crowley brings him flowers or chocolates or wine.

It just means there's a line he'll never cross, unless he's invited. And he thinks - he hopes - that there will come a time when Crowley issues that invitation. Maybe soon. He hopes soon. But he'll wait for later, if that's what it takes. 

He has nowhere else to be, after all.

* * *

**Fall 13**

Crowley is in the clinic for a sprained ankle and, apparently, a scolding. He doesn't remember selecting that treatment option, but when he says as much to Aziraphale, he doesn't get the laugh he's expecting.

"You're going too fast," Aziraphale snaps, even as he winds the bandage around Crowley's ankle with infinite care. "Even with Alex's help - if that tree had landed on you properly, if you hadn't got out of the way—"

There's a wobble in his voice that Crowley isn't prepared for.

"Hey, no, come on," he says quickly, all attempts at humour abandoned. "It was nowhere near that close. I'd have been fine if I hadn't caught my foot on that rock."

"All the same—"

"All right, maybe we do need to slow down a bit." Crowley watches Aziraphale finish the last of the binding and fix the end of the bandage in place with tape. "I'll be more careful, I promise."

As soon as Aziraphale takes his hands away from Crowley's ankle, Crowley reaches out and grasps them with his own. He isn't very good at offering comfort, he knows. It's not something he's had much opportunity to practice. But he wraps his fingers around Aziraphale's and squeezes gently, and it seems to be enough, because Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and his shoulders relax fractionally.

"We'll be more careful," Crowley repeats.

Aziraphale nods, squeezes back, and then pulls his hands away and begins tidying up the packing from the bandage and ice pack.

"Now, I will I have to charge you for this," Aziraphale says, not looking around, something like guilt in his voice, "but if you need a payment plan, or if— well, I'm sure I can arrange a discount—"

"What? No, it's fine, it's absolutely— you're not gonna hit me up for some over-inflated fee, are you?"

To Crowley's dismay, Aziraphale flinches like he's been struck. He still doesn't look up from what he's doing.

"Of course not," he replies sharply. "I just wanted you to know—"

Crowey frowns, reaches for the crutch Aziraphale has left leaning against the bed, carefully slides onto his good foot and tests his weight on the support. The other ankle throbs, but it's nowhere near as bad as it was half an hour ago. He takes a couple of awkward steps across the space between them and tentatively puts his free hand on Aziraphale's arm.

"You okay?"

"Me? You're the one who—"

"Angel. What's got you so upset?"

Aziraphale lets out his breath in a ragged sigh. He closes his eyes for a moment, then, before Crowley can react, he turns and pulls him into a hug. It only lasts a few moments, Aziraphale's breath on his ear, Aziraphale's arms tight around him. Then Aziraphale steps back and gives him a smile that tells Crowley he's going to be okay.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Aziraphale says. "Maybe later. For now, you should go home and _rest_ that, and if you think I'm letting you walk all the way back—"

"I don't see how else I'm getting home, unless you're going to carry me."

"I'll just go and knock on Lewis's door, he can pull his pick-up truck around."

Crowley groans, because Lewis's pick-up truck is, in his opinion, an entire hazardous experience of its own, not to mention monumentally uncomfortable for even a short ride. Aziraphale laughs at his expression, and the last of Crowley's concern eases.

(For now. He's not going to forget to ask about this later.)

"You should have thought of that before you got into a fight with a tree and lost," Aziraphale tells him with a wicked smile, and leaves Crowley sputtering wordlessly in the clinic backroom.

* * *

**Fall 15**

To his own surprise, Crowley has got into the habit of leaving his front door unlocked during the day. There just doesn't seem a lot of point in messing around with it when he needs to duck in and out of the house to grab things for the farm, and no-one within a twenty-mile radius is going to do more than stick their head around the door to say hello.

(He still locks up at night, even though he doubts the local squirrels are up for a bit of breaking and entering. He can't sleep otherwise.)

So he doesn't have to get up when he hears Aziraphale knock, just yells to come in from his position on the sofa. He's managed to get out and about to do the basics on the farm this morning - can't let Hastur and Ligur go hungry, after all - but when Aziraphale stopped by yesterday and caught him hobbling around hauling rocks he gave him such a telling off that Crowley is quite frankly still getting flashbacks. So he's done as he's told today and been resting up and he's sure it's very good for his ankle but after a whole afternoon of idleness he is also _bored out of his mind_.

"House call or social?" he asks eagerly as Aziraphale lets himself in and wipes his feet conscientiously on the mat.

"Ah— bit of both, if that's all right?" Aziraphale holds up a bottle. "I'll check you over first, of course, but I thought you might like some company—"

"You have no _idea_," Crowley replies fervently. "I've been watching _daytime TV_, I think my brain's about to dribble out of my ears."

"Something wrong with your internets, is there?"

"I swear you do that on purpose. And no, nothing wrong with it, I've just read every single ten point list that anyone has _ever written_ and I've run out of new episodes of Buzzfeed Unsolved."

"I'm going to pretend I know what you're talking about." Aziraphale puts the wine down in the kitchen and glances around. "What about dinner, do you have anything on hand?"

"Gus said he'd bring me something," Crowley says. Aziraphale returns his amused grin. They both know that Gus will bring easily enough food for two of them. He'll probably bring enough food for the whole _village_. "Go on, then, get the not-fun bit over with."

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the sofa and prods and flexes Crowley's ankle, which hurts, but apparently the specific way that it hurts is encouraging and means that he definitely hasn't broken anything. There's also a bit where Aziraphale digs his thumbs into the underside of Crowley's foot, and that doesn't hurt at all, that feels _remarkably_ nice, and he has to bite his lip not to let on that he'd be okay with a bit more of it, actually.

Afterwards, Aziraphale makes some notes in his old-fashioned leather-bound notebook, and hums contentedly over Crowley's prognosis, and then finally ditches the professional veneer and fetches the wine, two glasses, and a bottle opener. Crowley quietly watches, feeling oddly vulnerable after the examination, eyes lingering on Aziraphale's hands as he deftly works the corkscrew into the bottle and then eases the cork out.

"Do you need any help with the fair tomorrow?" Aziraphale asks, and Crowley blinks, takes far too long to get his brain into gear and process the question.

When he does, he swears briefly.

"Forgot about it," he admits. "Dunno, might skip the grange display thing. I can always do it next year, right?"

Aziraphale's hands stutter as he's pouring, spilling a few drops onto the coffee table. He tuts and goes to get a cloth to wipe it up.

"You think you'll still be here then?" he asks without looking at Crowley.

Crowley pauses, slightly thunderstruck. The assumption came so easily, like the casual way he's started thinking about the long-term future of the farm, the plans he's absently making for the next few seasons. He doesn't remember ever making a full, conscious commitment, doesn't remember a moment of choice between that precarious first week and now, but he's suddenly and completely aware that he has no intention of leaving the valley for— well, for a good long time, anyway.

And that it has more than a little to do with Aziraphale, ridiculous, fascinating, _wonderful_ Aziraphale, now fussily wiping up the spill, taking his seat on the other sofa, finally glancing at Crowley for his answer.

"Yeah," Crowley says, reaching for his wine. "Think I will be, actually."

* * *

**Fall 16**

Aziraphale isn't as keen on the harvest fair as the other festivals in the valley, even with the delicious barbecue Gus always lays on. It always feels a bit too commercial and staged, with the tourists who come from outside to enjoy the quaint village in the countryside.

He's aware it's ridiculous and rather hypocritical of him to resent other people for being drawn to this charming place he's made his home, but then on the other hand, he's _committed_ to Pelican Town. Not just popping in for spare ribs and carnival prizes, all these people from the big city...

He's glad to have Crowley to fuss over. It stops him from glancing at every face in the crowd, checking with a twist of his stomach to see if it's anyone he recognises.

(Ridiculous. So many people in the city, what would be the chances of someone who knows him coming all the way out here?)

Crowley is _refusing_ to behave himself, quite possibly driven stir-crazy by several days of low activity, and determined to try every stupid game regardess of whether or not it's going to involve putting weight on his injured ankle. Aziraphale huffs and protests and scolds and _mostly_ stops him from doing anything too ridiculous.

"Do you even know how to fish?"

"I mean, Willy gave me his old rod—"

"Yes, but have you _used_ it? Even once?"

"Look, how hard can it be?"

(The only reason he doesn't end up in the fake pond with the fish is because Aziraphale hovers at his elbow and grabs him before he can topple over.)

As they're emerging from the tent with their handful of prize tokens, Aziraphale catches sight of a woman with blonde hair who looks _just_ like one of his old patients, and his heart stutters with fear, and his stride falters.

"Now _that_ looks fun," Crowley says loudly, distracting him. When he sees the object of Crowley's interest, he makes no attempt to stifle his groan.

"_No_, Crowley."

"What, you don't think I've worked up a few arm muscles after all this time?" Crowley is hobbling determinedly in the direction of the Test Your Strength game. "Bet I can ring that bell like nobody's business."

"Don't you even think about it."

"But I only need a few more tokens for a prize—"

"What prize could you possibly want so desperately?"

They both look over at the prize booth, with its selection of twee and lacklustre rewards. Aziraphale sees Crowley falter for a moment, his pride rebelling, but he scans the racks determinedly and then plunges stubbornly onwards.

"I have _always_ wanted a stuffed unicorn," he says, convincingly and loudly enough that several people give him odd looks. "With pink hair."

"Well, if that's all— when is your birthday, anyway?"

Crowley's eyes widen in panic. "Fall 21, but—"

"Really? That's only a week away! You should have told me sooner!"

"I don't actually want you to buy me a stuffed unicorn—"

Aziraphale smiles sweetly and triumphantly at him and Crowley's ears turn red even as he glares over the top of his sunglasses.

"—because I'm going to have the satisfaction of _winning it_," he finishes, turning to the man running the game and holding out his hand for the hammer.

Aziraphale sighs the weary sigh of one who knows when he has been defeated. Crowley at least has the sense to set himself up so he's putting most of his weight on his other foot. He grins at Aziraphale, theatrically raises the hammer, and brings it down on the stone with all his might.

The gauge rises a respectable distance, but it doesn't get near the bell before sinking back down. Crowley stares at it with such indignant disbelief that it's all Aziraphale can do not to cackle out loud.

"Are you quite satisfied now, my dear?"

"No," Crowley says dangerously, "I am _not_. Must be rigged—"

Aziraphale hits his limit. He snatches the hammer from Crowley, tosses payment to the game runner, flexes his wrists to get the measure of the tool, and brings it down hard on the stone. The bell clangs out loud and clear, and the game owner smirks, and hands him a handful of tokens.

Crowley is gaping at him, face flushed and eyes wide. Aziraphale takes a moment to pat him on the cheek condescendingly.

"It's all in the chest and shoulders, you know," he says, not trying very hard to fight his smug grin. "Now, I think that's enough tokens to get you your prize, don't you?"

* * *

**Fall 19**

Crowley makes sure he's at the clinic door at 9 AM on the dot, much to Aziraphale's obvious exasperation.

"I was thinking you'd use it for the rest of the day, my dear..."

"Nope, you said I could give the stupid crutch back on Friday, it's Friday, here's your stupid crutch."

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and accepts the crutch, letting Crowley follow him into the clinic. Crowley grabs the bundle of post that's sticking out of the letter box and drops it on the counter as Aziraphale rummages around in a drawer and pulls out a form.

"All right, just sign here and we're done." 

He passes paper and pen over to Crowley, then picks up the post and starts flipping through it. Crowley scans the form, ticks the boxes, and has just signed his name when Aziraphale makes a noise in he back of his throat that brings Crowley's head up sharply.

Aziraphale's lips are pressed together until they're thin as blades. He's holding a letter he's just taken out of its envelope, and Crowley sees the mismatch straight away: decorated notepaper covered in curly handwriting, housed in a cold, white, formal envelope with a typed address. Aziraphale is glaring at it like he's trying to set it on fire with his eyes, but Crowley just _knows_ that the anger is there to cover how upset he is.

"What is it?"

Aziraphale folds the letter clumsily, stuffs it back into its envelope, and presses his hand to his eyes for a moment. Crowley sees his lower lip wobble, and that's categorically not okay and Crowley's going to be having _words_ with someone over it, as soon as he finds out who to shout at. In the meantime, he sidles along the counter and puts a hand tentatively on Aziraphale's arm, just above the elbow, sort of trying to indicate that he's open to offering physical comfort if that's what Aziraphale wants, but he's not going to press the issue—

Aziraphale crumples into his arms and buries his face in Crowley's shoulder, at which point Crowley decides that _words_ aren't going to be sufficient, he is going to find whoever is responsible for this and drop them in a _lake_. 

He tells Aziraphale as much, and gets a weak laugh for his efforts.

"It wouldn't help," he says, muffled by Crowley's jacket. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to move, and that's fine, Crowley's already mentally cancelling all his plans for today in lieu of standing right here for as long as Aziraphale needs him to. All weekend, if required. "Though it's a _wonderful_ image. Gabriel throws a fit if he even gets splashed by a puddle. I'm sure a lake would give him a nervous breakdown."

"Gabriel?"

Aziraphale sighs and stays where he is for another few seconds, then finally lifts his head and steps back.

"I suppose I'd better just tell you," he says, eyes darting away to the letter. "It's the stupidest thing, really, but it did rather— did rather ruin my life, for a bit."

Crowley makes a noise that he hopes communicates _go on_ while also conveying his continued willingness to enact lake-based vengeance. Aziraphale half-smiles, shoots him a sideways glance, and then starts fussing with the rest of the post as he talks.

"I used to work at a very large clinic, you see, quite— quite prestigious, actually, I was very proud to— anyway." He opens a bill, scans it, and sets it aside. "I was always more concerned with my patients, I never really wanted anything to do with the administration side of things, so it took me a long time to realise— years and years, I'm ashamed to say— what was going on."

"Which was?"

"Fee gouging." Aziraphale opens another letter and, on seeing that it's junk, crumples it up savagely. "Absolutely ruthless, inflating the cost of even simple procedures and treatments, making people pay through the nose for every little thing. I'd have patients burst into tears or refuse tests, saying they couldn't afford it, and I'd always promise them a discount, but I had no idea how little difference it made. If they even got it - when I went through the accounts, I found more than one incident where the bill had been sent through unaltered, just with a stamp on it saying it had been discounted."

"So you quit?"

"No. Well, yes, eventually, but first I..." Aziraphale starts absently folding up an empty envelope into a paper airplane. "Oh, I was terribly naive. I thought upper management couldn't possibly know about it, you see, so I brought it to my boss, Gabriel..."

"Ah." Crowley's starting to get an idea of how this must have played out. "He was in on it, I take it?"

"_Standard operating practice_, I was told," Aziraphale says grimly. "So I escalated it to head office, and I started contacting some of my patients to let them know what had been going on—"

Crowley winces despite himself. Aziraphale reddens in response, nodding his head gloomily.

"The rest was all just one long sordid chain of _ass-covering_," Aziraphale says, and pretends not to notice Crowley's reaction to his unexpected profanity. "Head office read me the riot act and told me to drop it. Everything was completely legal, apparently, and no-one was getting any refunds, and they certainly weren't going to let me get away with telling my patients they'd been unfairly treated. Before I knew it, they'd flipped the whole thing back onto me, made out that I'd been the one taking advantage of their 'flexible fee structure' to increase my own profits. _Gabriel_ wrote to all of my patients personally."

He says Gabriel's name so savagely that Crowley once more upgrades his plans for future vengeance. Never mind a lake, the guy needs to be drop-kicked into a _volcano._

"They didn't fire me," Aziraphale goes on, "but they made it impossible for me to stay. Word got out, and not just to my patients - someone tipped off some of my more judgemental neighbours, and the next thing I knew I was being ostracised on the street. There was a point where I just had to - go. Somewhere else. That's how I ended up here."

"So that letter—"

"I get them from time to time. Some of my old patients like to tell me in detail how I ruined their lives by overcharging them. They write to the clinic, and Gabriel always _helpfully_ sends the letters on to my lawyer."

His hands have clenched into fists on the counter. Crowley tries to remember whether there are any volcanically active areas within driving distance, then blinks as he slots something else into place.

"Wait, so your court case - are they _suing_ you as well? After all that?"

At that, Aziraphale's head comes up defiantly.

"Oh, no. _I'm_ suing _them_. Defamation, constructive dismissal, a few other things. I'm not letting them get _away_ with it. Even if it takes another five years to fight through this ghastly mess of a defence they've put together."

He glances at Crowley, takes in his expression.

"I know it would probably be more sensible to cut my losses and let it go—" he starts.

Crowley grabs him by the shoulders and shakes his head for emphasis.

"No _way_," he says, so momentarily overcome by emotion that he hardly knows how to form words. "Give them hell, angel."

* * *

**Fall 21**

Crowley is used to spending his birthday alone. He's never felt sad about it. Honestly, he's usually been glad of the excuse to just do whatever he wants for once, and he's made a habit of finding random, fun, and frivolous things to spend the day on. There were a few unpleasant years where his coworkers insisted on taking him out drinking, but thankfully that stopped after he quietly removed his name from the office calendar.

He's so used to it that he hesitates when Aziraphale offers to arrange dinner and cake, a part of him resenting even that much commitment, but... it's Aziraphale. Spending time with him is easy, and Crowley likes it a lot, and anyway he hasn't had a chance to organise any sort of trip for himself this year.

It's a good decision, and a good day: chores in the morning, TV marathon in the afternoon, and then he heads over to Aziraphale's flat and finds his favourite pasta dish and a dense, semi-sweet chocolate cake (and not a fucking candle in sight) and some absolutely _phenomenal_ wine. Crowley had no idea Aziraphale could even cook, but the pasta is fantastic. When queried, Aziraphale blushes and mumbles something about practicing to get it right, giving Crowley the sudden suspicion that Aziraphale has cooked this same meal every night for a week, which completely robs him of any sort of coherent response.

And Aziraphale has a present for him, too, and it's not another goddamn stuffed unicorn as Crowley half-fears, but a lovely white orchid with an elegant stand, just what Crowley has been musing on adding to his collection of house plants. He didn't think Aziraphale knew anything about plants, either, and he has no _idea_ how he's managed to select one that's so exactly what Crowley was looking for.

He ends up walking home after midnight, pleasantly drunk but not unsteady on his feet, the stars clear overhead. He's almost exactly halfway along the lane that leads to the farm when he finds himself slowing to a stop, leaning up against the fence, staring down at the orchid he's been carefully cradling in his arms.

Crowley has spent his entire life minimising the strings that tie him down. He's always been ready to move on at the drop of a hat, to try something new, to leave everything behind and start over. Even when he eventually settled in Zuzu City and at Joja, he kept a mental bag packed: no pets, no personal commitments, no long-term plans. He meant to do the same thing here. 

He glances down the lane towards his farm, towards his experimental crops and his chickens and his kitten (nearly a whole cat, now). Towards the space he's cleared for his orchard, and the row of beehives he's slowly constructing on the south-facing slope where the flowers will thrive in the sun. 

He glances back towards the town, towards Aziraphale.

He can't push that thought aside anymore, and maybe he's ready for it, finally, even though it feels like stepping off a high cliff into empty air. He's never been drawn to anyone the way he's been pulled into orbit around Aziraphale. He's never _felt_— he's never felt like this, never _wanted_ with such intensity, and trying to understand _what_ it is he wants is like trying to find his footing in the middle of an earthquake.

It's not that he doesn't know what's on offer. He's attracted to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale's certainly made it clear that it's mutual, hell, Crowley's never met such an outrageous flirt - but he's oddly restrained, for all that, a far cry from the kind of people who used to drape themselves over Crowley in nightclubs back when he still did that sort of thing. No, the problem isn't that he hasn't realised he wants Aziraphale, or that he's worried Aziraphale won't want him back.

No, it's all the _rest_ of it, the way he wants to cling on and never let go, the way he wants to rearrange everything in his life around Aziraphale, the way he wants to lie together in the darkness and say the kind of things that will forever destroy the persona he's constructed, the one that is an island neither needing nor wanting a bridge to land.

He doesn't know how to separate it all out, doesn't know how to kiss Aziraphale without also spilling all those words, doesn't know how to go to bed with him without begging him never to leave, and he doesn't know what to do with that intensity, doesn't know how to tone it down into something approaching normal romantic interest.

And if he doesn't, oh, the _cost_ if he goes too fast or says too much or holds his heart out in both hands... all that easy friendship, the warmth of it, the joy of shared jokes and teasing, the breathless realisation of how well Aziraphale knows him already... he can't pay that price, he won't, he refuses.

All he can think of to do is wait, to let more time pass, to hope he can get a handle on his feelings and figure out how to behave like a normal adult human rather than a vibrating ball of unbounded adoration and need.

He realises he's shivering, that he's stood for who knows how long out here in the lane, that he can hardly feel his fingers where they clutch the orchid. He shoves himself off from the fence and resumes his interrupted journey.

* * *

**Fall 27**

Aziraphale doesn't much like Spirit's Eve, either, but that's for the deeply embarrassing reason that he does terribly with jump-scares and isn't overly fond of spiders, and both those things always seem to be prominent in the decoration theme.

He's all right with having an excuse to cling to Crowley's arm as they navigate through the maze, though.

"Oh _Lord_!" Aziraphale gasps as a corpse-like hand grabs at his ankle. "Oh no, oh _please_ no—"

Crowley laughs, but he pulls Aziraphale in close at the same time, arms linked tight together, smile soft and only for him.

"Don't worry, angel, I'll protect you," he says, and Aziraphale feels quite weak around the knees.

Then Crowley attempts to kick the flailing hand, and it grabs his ankle and refuses to let go, and he swears at it quite a lot and hops around and Aziraphale has to admit the whole spectacle does rather take the frisson of fear out of things.

"Who even put this thing together?" Crowley wonders as they round a corner and Aziraphale shrieks quietly at the sight of the apparition hovering in a darkened dead-end. "It's fine, it's just a scarecrow with delusions of grandeur."

"It's hissing!"

"Some sort of mechanism, forcing air through a hose, probably."

"Its eyes are glowing!"

"LEDs, angel, look, I'll go and give it a poke—"

"_Please_ don't, let's just keep walking."

Crowley scowls at the phantom, and Aziraphale is almost sure the horrid thing _winks_ at him, but then Crowley is whisking him off to the next part of the maze and oh _no_.

"I don't like spiders," Aziraphale says, with what he feels is remarkable restraint, given that he has immediately shut his eyes and is at this point essentially plastered to Crowley's side, dignity be damned. "I don't _like_ them, Crowley."

"They're just made of papier mache, they can't hurt you."

"I really, really don't—"

Crowley wraps an arm around him and steers him gently for several metres.

"There, we're clear, you can look now."

Sure enough, they're in another dead-end, no sign of anything eight-legged - or, in fact, any other people. Aziraphale's suddenly very aware of how close they are, of the way Crowley's looking at him with such a mixture of fondness and amusement, the way his hand is so warm on Aziraphale's back. He bites his lip and tries not to focus on Crowley's mouth, but oh, he's right _there_ and Aziraphale's heart is already pounding from the silly, cheap scare tactics, and they could just lean back into the hedge—

One of them must attempt it, because the next thing Aziraphale knows, they're falling through a secret passage into a new part of the maze.

"Oh, come on, that's cheating," Crowley says, laughing and breathless and avoiding Aziraphale's eyes. "What's the prize, anyway?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Aziraphale admits, already missing Crowley's arm around him. "I don't usually come in here. I don't know how you talked me into it."

"It's my natural charm," Crowley replies with a grin, and he hooks their arms together again and Aziraphale leans into it gratefully. "Come on, let's see what's at the end of this, shall we?"

(It's a golden pumpkin, and Crowley stares at it with the special kind of horror reserved for singing cherub statues and glitter-encrusted toilet seats, and Aziraphale laughs so hard he has to sit down for a bit. And then it turns out they have to go all the way BACK through the maze, which seems very unfair, but at least Crowley promises him quite _extraordinary_ amounts of alcohol at the end of it all.)


	4. Winter (Part 1)

**Winter 1**

A neat, perfect two inches of snow has fallen overnight, and the whole damn village looks like something you'd put on a greetings card. Crowley has no idea who it is that gets up at the crack of dawn at the start of each new season and redecorates the entire place, but all that folksy autumnal stuff has been whisked away in favour of coloured lights and wreaths of holly.

Winter's always been a bit of a mixed season for him. It fits with his image to dislike the holiday music and the cutesy decorations and the wholesome family imagery, so he's very much in the habit of grumbling about it all, but the truth is he likes the run-up to the Festival of the Winter Star. All the bright lights and the excitement and the hope, the way kids get so desperately worked up you think their little heads are going to explode, the way adults give themselves a little bit of permission to remember what beings kids was like.

The actual day, though, he'd be happy to sleep through (and he's tried on more than one occasion). All that life and vivacity vanishes behind closed doors where he's not invited, and there's very little as depressing as a microwaved Winter Star Deluxe Feast For One.

Still, it's a whole season away, and for now he's crunching through the thin skin of snow, crisscrossing the other trails of footprints in the town square, heading for the twinkling beacon of the saloon. When he gets there, it's a little busier than normal - Emily has friends visiting from out of town - and their usual table is taken. Crowley slides into one of the booths at the back instead. It's rather cosy, the lights a bit dimmer back here, the leather of the seats warming quickly against his back.

Aziraphale is late, as usual, so Crowley starts without him, as usual, accepting Gus's suggestion of spiced mead and finding it horrifyingly and addictively sweet. He's on his second glass when Aziraphale finally blusters in through the door, brushing snow off his shoulders and looking around for Crowley, and Crowley finds himself frozen with his glass halfway to his mouth.

If the village itself is a picture postcard, Aziraphale's some sort of seasonal figurine, bundled up in a big thick coat with a hat and scarf and are those _mittens_? He's all but buried in his layers, more cushion than man, and as he spots Crowley and smiles brightly, he might be the most desirable thing Crowley has ever laid his eyes on.

He forces a smile and takes a big gulp of mead as Aziraphale makes his way across the tavern. _Slow,_ he reminds himself, _go slow_, and oh Yoba are those little twinkly stars knitted into his hat? Absolutely everything about Aziraphale's attire screams the opposite of what Crowley has ever considered sexy, and yet he's sitting here blushing like a stop light.

_I want to unwrap him like a Winter Star gift,_ Crowley thinks, clearly and with something like desperation. _Help_.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Aziraphale is saying as he slides into the other side of the booth. He tries to unwind his scarf and take his hat off at the same time and the resulting tangle occupies him for just long enough for Crowley to get some deep breathing in. "Lively tonight, isn't it?"

"Mhm," says Crowley, trying not to notice how Aziraphale's shirt collar is rucked up over the neck of his warm woolly sweater as he shrugs out of his coat. "S'a party, all right."

"Oh, is that the spiced mead you have there? It is so perfect for these cold winter nights, isn't it? Do you mind if I—"

He gestures at the glass, and Crowley slides it across the table like one mesmerised. He watches Aziraphale lift it carefully in freshly de-mittened fingers, sniff it with the appreciation of someone holding a bouquet of lilies, and then sip it delicately, rolling the stuff around his mouth in appreciation. HIs eyes close for a moment. It's only when they open again, focus on Crowley, and blink rapidly in surprise that Crowley realises he's been leaning forward over the table.

"Yeah, it's, uh, it's nice, shall I get you some?" Crowley half-tumbles out of the booth, catches himself on the table. "Or the usual?"

Aziraphale looks at him thoughtfully for a long moment, and then takes another long, slow sip from Crowley's glass.

"Yes, I think I'll have some of this," he decides, as Crowley's knuckles whiten on the edge of the table. "We might as well get a bottle, don't you think?"

"Ngk," says Crowley, and flees to the bar.

* * *

**Winter 4**

Aziraphale finds Crowley deep in conversation with Pam at the bar - or at least, deep in _something_, possibly a circle of Hell if Crowley's desperate glance in his direction is anything to go by.

"Sorry I'm late, my dear," Aziraphale says as he approaches, even though he's long since given up apologising for what Crowley refers to as his _chronic chronological crisis_. "Shall we sit down? I'm quite famished."

"Yes! Of course! Nice talking to you, Pam, see you later—"

Crowley grabs him by the arm and heads for Gus to place their order, then steers him over to the booth again, quite possibly because it's as far from Pam as he can get. Aziraphale has no objection. He rather likes how cosy it is, how their knees bump together under the table, and how he can so easily imagine both of them sliding onto the same bench side by side...

For now, though, he sits down and watches Crowley flounder into place on the far side of the table with so much exaggerated relief that it's hard to keep his lip from quirking in amusement.

"I hope I didn't interrupt a pleasant conversation," he says, because he can't help himself.

Crowley glares at him like he's seriously considering throwing a crumpled-up napkin at his head. It wouldn't be the first time.

"She thinks I should make _wine_," Crowley says. "On the farm."

"Oh _dear_."

They share an intense and horrified moment, as only two confirmed wine snobs can.

"She wouldn't shut up about it," Crowley goes on, grimacing. "Kept suggesting it'd be cheaper to make my own than buy it, too, like that's got _anything_ to do with anything, like you can just whip up a Bordeaux or a Chateauneuf du Pape in a couple of barrels in the cellar..."

"Well, I suppose Pam has different priorities," Aziraphale says, in an effort to be fair. "She's never been very interested in refining her palate."

"And then she started banging on about _beer_..."

The thought of Crowley brewing beer makes Aziraphale laugh. Although he does think he'd get on well with the current trend towards niche hipster microbreweries. That would require him to _drink_ beer, though, something which Aziraphale has never witnessed and never expects to. Crowley would like him to believe that he considers it beneath him, but Aziraphale has a suspicion that he just doesn't like the taste. He's already figured out Crowley's secret sweet tooth; he's fully intending to order some more of the spiced mead tonight.

The thought gives him pause.

"You know," he says slowly, "she might be onto something..."

Crowley's jaw drops and Aziraphale can see his eyes going very wide and betrayed behind his glasses.

"You _what_—?"

"No, not like that— oh good heavens, dear, shut your mouth before you catch flies." Aziraphale swats at him lightly across the table. "Not _proper_ wine, but - you know those fruit wines you get in the Winter Star markets, the sweet ones?"

He hasn't explained himself very well, but Crowley follows his thought train, frowns as he props his chin on one hand and stares off into the distance.

"I s'pose it could work," he says doubtfully. "Dunno what the profit margin would be. Might be kind of fun as an experiment, though."

"You've got all that shed space, after all."

Crowley shoots him a sour look. He has finally given up on making mayonnaise, on the basis that the kindest thing even Aziraphale could say about the results was that _some_ of them didn't look like snot. Marnie has the local market cornered on eggs, but Crowley's shown no inclination to get rid of Hastur and Ligur, and keeps mumbling speculatively about ducks. No matter how much he talks about profit margins and return on investments, around half of what Crowley does on the farm is about trying things out and the other half is about stubbornly doing what he likes regardless of market forces. As it happens, he's got enough of a knack for clever ideas that he can make it work, and if he's not maximising profit, he doesn't care. Aziraphale loves him for it.

Gus brings their food over just then, which Aziraphale can only attribute to a small miracle, because it gives him time to smother the panic that follows the thought, to make sure his face isn't betraying him.

"Hmm, maybe you're right," Crowley muses as Aziraphale busies himself with knife and fork and a soaring sense of trying desperately to keep one foot on the ground. "Lots of blackberries last season. And there'll be the salmonberries in the spring. They'd make a nice, sweet sort of drink, wouldn't they? Like juice but boozy."

"You'll have plenty of apples later, too, you could make spiced cider for winter," Aziraphale replies conversationally, keeping his eyes on his plate. "Oh! And the honey, of course—"

Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale doesn't meant to glance up but he can't help himself, and Crowley's giving him that fond look that always strikes sparks in his stomach.

"Is this all a plot to get me to supply you with endless spiced mead, angel?"

"Well, the thought had _occurred_—"

Crowley grins at him.

"I can take a hint," he says, sliding out of his seat and heading for the bar. "I'll get a bottle, shall I?"

Aziraphale watches him go, watches the way he moves and the casual way he says hello to a few people as he passes. He thinks about how nothing's really changed about the way Crowley dresses and talks since he moved here, but somehow he no longer looks like he doesn't belong. He thinks about how Crowley would look with that black shirt unbuttoned and pushed back off his chest and his head flung back and his throat exposed—

Aziraphale gives his steamed bass a reproachful look, as if it has previously undiscovered aphrodisiac properties, and sighs. _Just wait_, he reminds himself. _Don't ask too much._

* * *

**Winter 6**

It turns out winter is _boring_.

Nothing grows. The beehives are all finished and ready to go, but the bees won't arrive until spring. The ground's too hard to dig, there's a layer of snow over the weeds and grass, and the one time Crowley thinks he'll do a bit more clearing of the rocks by the large pond, he slips on a patch of ice and very nearly falls head-first into the frigid water. He does not tell Aziraphale about this incident, but it does make him reluctantly accept that he's done with that sort of thing until spring.

Hastur and Ligur hardly need more than a few minutes of care per day. Neither does their new friend/mortal enemy Dagon the Duck, although her tendency to aggressively chew on Crowley's bootlaces every morning is at least entertaining.

So Crowley finds himself at a loose end, and he doesn't _like_ it. He's become rather used to the rhythms of his life in the valley. He can theoretically spend more time with Aziraphale, but hanging around the clinic while Aziraphale works isn't wildly exciting either, and after a few days of it he becomes aware of some pointed looks.

"It's not that I don't enjoy your company," Aziraphale says, deftly retrieving the stethoscope Crowley has been using to try and hear what's going on through the wall next-door. "But you are awfully _distracting_ sometimes."

Crowley opens his mouth to offer to be even _more_ distracting if Aziraphale likes, then catches himself and swallows the remark into a non-committal _ungh_ sort of sound.

"There's always the library, you know," Aziraphale continues. "Plenty of reading material, nice and warm..."

"I don't read," Crowley protests.

"You read for hours on that phone of yours."

"That's _different_."

"Well, it certainly can't be good for your eyes. Why don't you at least have a look around? I'm sure I've seen books about farming in there."

"They'll be out of date. That's the problem with books."

"Not _everything_ changes so quickly it needs constant updates, you know. And there's still value to learning about the older ways of doing things."

Crowley snorts at that, but he _is_ bored, and he doesn't want Aziraphale to progress from fond exasperation into actual irritation with him, so after they've had lunch, he slouches off to investigate the library.

He's immediately intercepted by a guy he's somehow never met, who introduces himself as Gunther (oh, right, yeah, Aziraphale has mentioned him) and explains that he lives up in the mountains and drives in to the village every day just to curate the attached museum of local history. He does not explain why this necessitates a cowboy hat and spurs, and Crowley does not ask.

The museum is... underwhelming. Crowley makes appreciative noises over all the rocks and a few muddy bits of things that Gunther insists are ancient tools. He's almost certain that one of them is a plastic chicken toy from a Joja JoyMeal(™). He escapes eventually after making a half-hearted promise to let Gunther know if he digs up anything interesting on the farm.

The library itself, by contrast, is remarkably well-stocked. As he wanders the shelves and flips through books at random, Crowley can't help noticing that quite a few of them have 'kindly gifted by Dr Fell' written on their inside covers. Given how often Aziraphale is in here, Crowley starts to suspect that he's simply using the library as an extension of his own limited shelf space. The thought makes him grin to himself.

And then he spots it: a hardback like three bricks taped together, bound in faded brown paper, the words _Nice and Accurate Baking Tips For Beginners_ inscribed on its spine. Crowley inches the massive tome off the shelf, not without some difficulty, and attempts to flip through it. After a moment, he carries it over to a table and puts it down, then tries again.

It is, he realises, exactly what he needs. The recipes he finds on the internet often assume a certain level of knowledge, or are, quite frankly, much too complicated for his limited experience (not that he's let it stop him). He's yet to produce a single confection that he feels confident feeding to Aziraphale, but he hasn't stopped wanting to try.

The book is laid out as a progression, starting simple, working up to towering multi-tier constructions of buttercream and fondant. It is also written in a style that suggests the author assumes his intelligence to be slightly lower than the average rock, and whilst Crowley objects to that insinuation, he also shame-facedly notes that it _helps_. Not only that, there are chapters explaining _why_ certain processes work the way they do, and what happens when you change one of the variables, and how to compensate for your oven's tendency to set things on fire.

He hauls the book over to the main desk, checks it out, and emerges triumphant into the cold winter sunlight.

It only takes about three steps for him to realise that he's now got to carry the bloody great thing all the way back to the farm, and he'll have to go the long way so Aziraphale doesn't see him through the clinic window, and his arms are going to be _killing_ him by the time he gets back.

He sighs, and begins to trudge grimly through the snow.

* * *

**Winter 8**

They've been at the Ice Festival for all of twenty minutes and Crowley is shivering already. Aziraphale makes a note to badger him into buying some warmer clothing. At the very least, he's getting a good warm scarf, hat, and mittens for Winter Star this year. Aziraphale doesn't consider himself particularly good at handicrafts, but he _is_ rather a dab hand at knitting. He's always had a tendency to stress-knit, and it probably says quite a lot that before moving to Stardew Valley he used to average a scarf a week. He's hardly touched his needles since last winter, when he made that hand-warmer for Jaz.

The only problem is that Crowley clearly needs them _now_, when Aziraphale's still halfway through the hat and the mittens are only a daydream wrapped around several skeins of high-grade alpaca wool in a fetching deep crimson colour.

"Okay," Crowley is saying, stubbornly pretending he isn't cold, "but look, I'm feeling a bit... _got at, _is what I'm saying."

Aziraphale regards the ice sculpture in front of them. It appears to be an ambulatory pear wearing sunglasses. He has no further information on its origin or purpose.

"I don't think it has anything to do with you, dear. The sunglasses look nothing like yours."

Crowley casts a final suspicious look at the ice pear, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. Aziraphale sighs. He's wearing his own favourite scarf and he really doesn't _want _to expose his neck and chin to the cold, but his warm jumper and thick winter coat will go some way to mitigating its effects, whereas Crowley's here in the same coat he was wearing in the summer and probably nothing but a shirt underneath it. Aziraphale starts to unwrap his scarf as they drift away from the ice sculptures.

"Leah's mermaid is good," Crowley goes on. "And I like the ice castle— wait, what?"

The latter comment is because Aziraphale has stepped in close and is slinging his scarf around Crowley's shoulders.

"I'd rather you didn't enter _yourself_ as an ice sculpture," Aziraphale says mildly, flinging another loop of warm woolly insulation around Crowley's exposed throat. "Honestly, Crowley, your lips are turning _blue_."

"They are not," Crowley protests weakly. "You don't have to—"

"Do you at least have gloves?"

Crowley mumbles something, digs in his pockets and produces a pair of very stylish and very _thin_ leather driving gloves. Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but it's better than nothing, and Crowley's cheeks have gone a fetching shade of pink that seems like it's doing something to counteract the cold.

Well, he's not going to stand by and let the poor dear freeze, now is he? He loops his arm through Crowley's and pulls him in close, squeezing tightly to try and share some of his body heat. Crowley makes one of those noises that suggests he's trying to gargle a frog, and Aziraphale steers him cheerfully in the direction of the snowman competition.

* * *

**Winter 11**

Crowley's feeling extremely smug as he approaches the clinic. He's just successfully baked his first cake, and although it went a little saggy in the middle, Agnes Nutter's tome of wisdom has explained why, and how to make sure it doesn't happen again. He's confident he's going to be able to surprise Aziraphale with a homemade birthday cake on the 14th.

Well. Fairly confident. He may have also ordered a back-up cake just in case. You never know when your oven's going to explode, after all.

(Agnes's advice on that matter is simply: _run_.)

He's also got theatre tickets and a dinner reservation and a first edition of that book Aziraphale's been banging on about for weeks. And a fair helping of anxiety over whether it's _enough_, coupled with a paradoxical paranoia that it's too _much_. It's only a couple of weeks until Winter Star, after all, and Crowley's got his eye on a stollen recipe and a mint-condition set of Winnie the Pooh books...

Nonetheless, the triumph of successful cake alchemy has him on enough of a high that he bursts into the clinic with a rousing chorus of that awful catchy Winter Star tune about sugar angels, hoping to make Aziraphale's face do the thing where he scowls and laughs at the same time.

Instead, Aziraphale shushes him abruptly as soon as he enters, frowning as he leans over to turn up the volume on the radio. Crowley hesitates in the doorway, wrongfooted and feeling rather ridiculous with the line about candy wings still hanging in the air. He closes the door and kicks the snow off his boots and shuffles over to the counter.

"Everything all right?" he asks as Aziraphale turns off the radio with a click and smiles at him.

"Oh, yes, I just wanted to catch the weather forecast. It sounds like there's going to be heavy snow at the weekend."

Crowley nods with mild interest. You don't tend to get a lot of snow in the city; he's sort of looking forward to seeing what it's like out here.

"So we may have to cancel our plans for Sunday," Aziraphale goes on regretfully.

Crowley stares at him in dismay.

"What? No, no, it'll be fine, not gonna let a bit of snow spoil your birthday—"

"My dear, it's more than a _bit_ of snow, they're predicting blizzard conditions on Saturday."

"We're not driving on Saturday," Crowley points out. "And I've got snow chains for the Bentley, it'll be fine."

"Have you ever actually used them?" Aziraphale asks.

"No, but—"

"Crowley, it's perfectly all right." Aziraphale gives him a fond look and pats his hand. "It's one of the hazards of having a winter birthday. If we can't go into the city I'm sure you can help me celebrate some other way."

Aziraphale has absolutely no right to sound so coy and look so innocent at the same time. It does something terrible to Crowley's brain. He mumbles a weak protest, but all his arguments about braving the weather regardless have been swallowed up in the urgent desire to pull Aziraphale onto the counter and snog him senseless. Aziraphale seems to take this as capitulation.

"Shall we go to lunch, then?" He heads for the coat rack, giving Crowley a few much-needed seconds to get himself together. "You really must get yourself some snow boots, you know, and a warmer coat."

Crowley rolls his eyes, taking refuge in mild irritation. They've had this conversation every day for almost a week. He'll get around to it. He's fine as long as he walks fast and doesn't hang around outside looking at ice sculptures or whatever. And snow boots frankly seem like overkill. His usual footwear is doing just fine with the thin, crunchy layer of white that lies over everything.

"Got some on order," he lies. "I'll be fine, angel."

Aziraphale casts him a suspicious look, but lets the subject drop as he winds his own ridiculously long scarf around his neck.

"Now then," he says as they head for the door. "What _was_ that you were singing when you came in? I didn't quite catch it."

* * *

**Winter 13**

The snow starts just after lunch, delicious flurries at first, perfectly picturesque in the village square. By the time Aziraphale closes up the clinic for the day, it's coming down heavily, the sky so dark with snow clouds that it feels like an early twilight. He decides against his afternoon walk, and puts the radio on to catch the hourly weather report. 

Sure enough, the promised blizzard is here, temperatures falling with the snowflakes as the wind picks up. By morning the couple of inches of snow blanketing the valley will have increased to at least a few feet, probably more. There'll be a lot of shovelling tomorrow afternoon, Aziraphale thinks, assuming it's stopped by then. A lot of snowball fights, too, and Sam will probably get that death-trap of a sledge out again. He'd better make sure he's got plenty of warm blankets and sticking plasters on hand for when someone inevitably makes the close acquaintance of a tree or a rock.

They definitely won't be driving into the city, which is a shame, but Aziraphale can't bring himself to feel too disappointed. The thing he was looking forward to most about his birthday was spending it with Crowley, and he'll still be able to do that. In the meantime it's a lovely excuse to curl up with a book and a mug of cocoa, even if he does find himself wondering more than once how Crowley's getting on at the farm. He hopes he owns a snow shovel, and he tries not to worry about the thought of Crowley out there on his own, cut off from the town until the blizzard passes. He'll phone him later, Aziraphale thinks, just to check on him.

It's getting properly dark, and Aziraphale is trying to convince himself that he ought to at least put one of his oven meals on rather than just snacking on crackers and cheese for the rest of the evening, when there's a knock at the clinic door. Aziraphale goes downstairs without hurry, thinking that Lewis might have slogged across the town square to check on him, or maybe Pierre's going to invite him next-door for dinner again, which he has to admit would be tempting...

He's not expecting Crowley, let alone a Crowley who's shivering so badly he's practically vibrating, and whose lips have taken on an unhealthy blue tinge.

"Hey," Crowley manages through chattering teeth, "Uh, c'n I— just come in and warm up for five minutes before I head back home?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale grabs him by the arm and hauls him inside so fast his feet barely touch the ground. In fact he's about five seconds away from flinging Crowley over his shoulder if it'll get him up to the flat without arguing, but Crowley is apparently too cold to protest being dragged bodily up the stairs. "What on earth have you been _doing_?"

"Just _things_," Crowley mumbles. "'S fine I just need a minute..."

Aziraphale hardly even needs his medical degree to recognise that Crowley is categorically _not fine_; as it is, the symptoms of early stage hypothermia are screaming at him even as he kicks himself forcefully into the state of calm necessary to deal with the situation. He can yell at Crowley later.

"Shoes off, _now_," he orders briskly. He can see they're soaked through. "Coat too. Are your clothes wet?"

"Dunno." Crowley sits on the sofa when Aziraphale pushes him down, and starts attempting to unlace his shoes with numbed, clumsy fingers. "Can't really feel anything."

Aziraphale tuts to hide his concern, kneels at Crowley's feet, and quickly divests him of his shoes. His feet feel like blocks of ice as Aziraphale peels off his sodden socks. His jeans are wet to the knee, the wicking effect of denim doing its worst. His fingers are so white that Aziraphale starts to worry about actual frostbite.

"Oh, for Yoba's sake," Aziraphale mutters. He jumps to his feet and hurries over to his dresser, pulling out drawers in rapid succession. "Right, take _everything_ off, put that lot on."

Crowley stares at the bundle of clothing Aziraphale has thrust into his arms, then blinks at Aziraphale with what is either mild hypothermic confusion or an inconveniently timed burst of self-consciousness.

"When you say everything—"

"I _mean_ everything," Aziraphale replies, hauling Crowley up off the sofa and pushing him towards the bathroom. "Leave the wet things over the bath. You've got five minutes, get on with it."

"What happens in five minutes?" comes Crowley's voice from the other side of the door as Aziraphale pulls it shut.

"Either you're back on that sofa under a blanket or I'm coming in there to get you."

He doesn't linger to decipher Crowley's muffled squawk of protest, going instead to extract his electric blanket from the bed, draping it over the sofa so it will warm the cushions. Then he heads to the kitchen and sets some milk boiling on the stove, finds his best hot chocolate, gets a couple of mugs ready. He's just eyeing the clock intently when he hears the bathroom door open.

Crowley looks sheepish and nervous and _desperately adorable_. He's bundled up in Aziraphale's warmest flannel pyjamas, heaviest knitted sweater, and thickest, fluffiest socks, and they're all rather too big on him. His hair is sticking up in odd directions where he's obviously had a go at towelling it dry, and he's abandoned his sunglasses somewhere along the way. Aziraphale has several thoughts in quick succession that range from a fierce and possessive ache under his breastbone, a wholly inappropriate (or at least poorly-timed) surge of desire, and an enormous, floundering longing that he barely knows how to contain.

He falls back on that well-practised artificial calm, managing the practicalities of the situation.

"Good, get under that blanket. I'll bring this over in a minute."

"You don't need to fuss," Crowley says, but he shuffles over to the sofa and burrows under the electric blanket as instructed. "Oh, wow, I need to get one of these."

"_You_ need to get some proper winter clothing, like I _keep telling you_," Aziraphale retorts, mixing the hot milk with the chocolate. "And I'll fuss as much as I like, if you're going to turn up half-frozen on my doorstep. What were you _thinking_?"

He carries the mugs over to the sofa and places them down on the end table.

"Didn't know it was gonna get this bad—" Crowley replies defensively.

"It was on the forecast!"

"I had things to _do,_" Crowley mutters. "Thought it would pass."

"It's been snowing for _hours_, Crowley, you should have headed home as soon as it started!"

Crowley mumbles something incoherent and reaches for one of the mugs; Aziraphale intercepts his hand and examines it carefully. The skin is flushed with returning circulation, but he doesn't see any sign of frostbite. He sighs with relief.

"Be careful to hold onto the handle only," he warns, releasing Crowley's hand. "And tuck your feet up, get them warm too."

Crowley's gone rather red in the face, which is probably a good sign for his poor beleaguered capillaries, but he does as he's told. Aziraphale hands him the hot chocolate as a reward.

"Don't suppose you've got anything stronger?"

"Absolutely _not_, alcohol lowers your body temperature—"

"Joking!" Crowley yelps, huddling over the mug and blowing on the hot drink. "Just joking."

Aziraphale's not convinced he _was_ just joking, and he conveys this with a glare as he sits back in his armchair and takes up his own mug.

"Honestly, Crowley, everyone in the valley has been safely at home preparing to wait out the blizzard, and you've been, what, out for a hike?"

"Something like that." Crowley shoots him a sulky look. "I didn't _know_, did I? _Everyone else in the valley_ didn't mention it. When it snows in the city you just carry on like normal."

"I mentioned it!" Aziraphale protests. "Several times!"

"Yeah, but I thought you were..." Crowley grimaces. "Overreacting."

Aziraphale glares at him and Crowley at least has the decency to look shamefaced.

"What were you doing, anyway?"

Crowley mumbles something evasive about collecting firewood. Aziraphale narrows his eyes. Crowley fiddles with his mug and looks mutinous and sulky.

"Wanted it to be a surprise," he mutters.

Aziraphale swallows, suddenly overcome with a terrible swooping suspicion that Crowley has got himself into this state on his behalf.

"A surprise?" he repeats. "For me?"

"Not just for you." Crowley sinks deeper into his blanket shell like a recalcitrant oyster. "'S kind of a thing for everyone. Just an idea I had. You know the old community centre?"

Aziraphale frowns.

"That building up the hill past the park, on the way to Robin's house? The one that's falling down?"

"Yeah." Crowley sips his hot chocolate and avoids eye contact. "Just thought... was just seeing if there was anything I could do to, you know. Fix it up a bit. Make it useful again. And I lost track of time, and I got colder in there than I realised, and then I came outside and it was dark and like _this_ and I tripped over something and fell into a snow drift and it got inside my shirt and started melting and it was all downhill from there." He half-laughs. "Literally, I just sort of kept going down the slope until I spotted your lights."

"Oh, _Crowley_," Aziraphale says, and he really doesn't know what _else_ to say, because of _course_ Crowley would just casually drop something like this in front of him like it doesn't make his heart do nearly explosive things in his chest, and of _course_ he'd be _embarrassed_ to admit he was trying to do something nice for people, and _of course_ he decided to do it during the first real blizzard of winter without wearing so much as a pair of gloves.

"Anyway," Crowley goes on, still determinedly gazing into his hot chocolate as if to divine the secrets of the future from its depths, "I'll just get warmed up and then I'll get out of your hair—"

"Absolutely _not_," Aziraphale replies, just as a gust of wind rattles pointedly against the building. "You're not going anywhere until morning."

"I need to check on the animals," Crowley protests, the tips of his ears turning red.

"The animals will be fine. You always put too much food out and Freddie will just sleep in your bed where it's warm. You're not walking all the way out there by yourself in the dark."

"It's not that far."

"It's further than you walked to get here, and there are no lights, and all it would take is to twist your ankle again and go down in a ditch - do you have _any_ idea how quickly you can succumb to hypothermia in this weather?"

"Aziraphale, come on, I'll be fine—"

"_No_, Crowley, I am quite serious." Aziraphale doesn't raise his voice, because he has a lot of practice at not raising his voice, but his tone gets him Crowley's undivided and wide-eyed attention. "I am not _overreacting_. You really don't know anything about these conditions and how quickly things can go bad. No-one in the valley would risk the walk out to your farm right now. We can go next-door and ask Pierre and Caroline for their opinion if you like, or I can call up Lewis or Gus—"

"No, no, all right, I get it." Crowley's gone red again, but this time it's the embarrassment that comes in the wake of realising he's messed up. "You've made your point."

Aziraphale's got sufficient wind in his sails that it takes him a moment to realise that Crowley has capitulated.

"Oh," he says. And then. "Well. That's all right then."

Crowley flashes him a crooked, self-conscious smile, eyes begging to be forgiven for his own foolishness, and Aziraphale is so seized by the urge to reach over and bury his hands in that messy hair that it's probably a good thing he's holding a mug of hot chocolate and can't act on impulse.

And that's when it dawns on him that he has, effectively, just invited Crowley to spend the night. Which is certainly something he may have contemplated under other circumstances, but he is at this moment _entirely unprepared_.

"Oh," Aziraphale says again, springing to his feet and heading for the kitchen. "I don't know what I have in the way of dinner, I'm afraid, er, there should be a pizza or two in the freezer—"

He's never been more embarrassed by his own lack of skill in the kitchen. He can't even make that pasta he learned for Crowley's birthday; he doesn't have half the ingredients and he hasn't the foggiest how one would improvise around their absence.

"Pizza's fine," Crowley says at once. "Anything's fine. Don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It's no trouble at all." Aziraphale busies himself with digging out the pizzas and heating the oven. "Pepperoni and onions, or ham and pineapple?"

Crowley hesitates, which makes Aziraphale worry for a moment that he doesn't fancy either option, but then he catches sight of Crowley's expression, and has to bite back a smile.

"If you choose the one with pineapple, I promise it will never go beyond these walls."

Crowley glares at him, but there's not much heat in it.

"Fine. Yeah. Whatever," he mutters, nursing his hot chocolate like a grudge.

* * *

The power goes out just as they finish eating, with a suddenness that makes Aziraphale gasp even though he's been half-expecting something of the sort. He'd hoped for some flickering lights to give warning, though. Instead, they're just plunged into pitch blackness while Aziraphale's running the sink to wash up.

"Fuck!" exclaims Crowley from the general vicinity of the kitchen table. "Did you blow a fuse, angel?"

"No, it's nothing I did." 

Aziraphale turns off the tap and fumbles around the kitchen counters until he finds the torch he left out for this very eventuality. When he clicks it on, Crowley yelps in protest; Aziraphale is accidentally pointing it right at his face.

"Sorry." Aziraphale sweeps the torch beam away from Crowley's rapid blinking, and crosses the flat to peer out of the window at the rest of the town. "Ah yes, it's all gone dark, I'm afraid."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Crowley demands, sounding more than a little spooked. "Is this some ancient small-town curse you never mentioned—"

"More like an ancient small-town power line that always seems to go down at least once during the winter storms," Aziraphale explains. "The whole valley's blacked out, probably until morning."

"Oh."

"Not to worry, I have a heater and plenty of candles." Aziraphale goes to his closet and rummages for the relevant box. "Here we are."

It's amazing what a difference a few candles make. The flat is soon dotted with warm yellow pools of light. Aziraphale sets up the heater but doesn't start it; there's enough residual warmth to be going on with for now. Crowley watches him move around lighting candles. It makes Aziraphale feel unusually self-conscious, the way Crowley's eyes track him around the room.

He goes back to the closet for a few more supplies: a heap of warm blankets, a couple of hot water bottles, and a camping stove and kettle that he sets up on the kitchen counter for later.

"You really are prepared," Crowley comments with amusement. "Do you have emergency tea and biscuit supplies too?"

(Aziraphale _does_, in fact, just on general principal, but he sees no need to tell Crowley that.)

"Trust me, you only have to get caught out once to make sure it doesn't happen again. Fortunately Pierre and Caroline rescued me the first time."

"Is that what you're doing?" Crowley asks with an odd little smile. "Rescuing me?"

Aziraphale doesn't know quite why that hits him in the chest so forcefully. Maybe it's the way Crowley's pulled one of his legs up onto the chair, half-hugging his knee, while the borrowed jumper slips off his shoulder. He looks soft and vulnerable in a way he rarely does. Aziraphale would very much like to pick him up (he's pretty sure he could), carry him to the bed, and wrap himself around him until morning.

He hears himself make the kind of inarticulate noise that is normally more Crowley's forte, and quickly turns to the wine rack to hide his face.

"Thought I wasn't allowed booze?" Crowley asks, still with that odd note in his voice, like he's trying for teasing, but it's not quite landing right. "Doctor's orders and all that—"

"Oh, you're warm enough now, I should think, and there's not a lot else to do, is there?" Actually, Aziraphale can think of _several_ other things to do, and not one of them is appropriate for polite company. Not that Crowley has ever really counted as politecompany, but still. "You're welcome to borrow a book, but it's hard work reading by candlelight." He selects a nice bottle of Burgundy and goes to retrieve two glasses from the cupboard. "We'll just have to entertain ourselves by drinking and talking, won't we?"

It gets the laugh he's aiming for.

"So just a normal Saturday night for us then."

"Exactly," Aziraphale replies, trying not to think about how their normal Saturday nights don't involve romantic candlelight and Crowley _wearing his clothes_ and the whole _bed_ question that's looming at some point in the future. "Now, tell me more about this community centre project of yours."

* * *

Crowley is trying valiantly to get back to his point after a long detour into something about lobsters, and Aziraphale is doing his best to follow along, but he keeps losing the thread of the conversation thanks to all of Crowley's— all his distracting _things, _like the way his mouth moves and the way his hands move and the way he's right _there_ under the shared blanket (look, it was the sensible option, keeps them both warmer) so close Aziraphale can feel the heat of him even though they aren't touching. And the way he keeps sneaking looks at Aziraphale when he thinks Aziraphale isn't looking, and the way Aziraphale keeps catching him at it, and the way neither of them quite look away fast enough each time.

And oh it's so— they're curled up here in this private little space, warm under the blanket, relaxed with just enough wine, leaning towards each other, and the candlelight is soft and flattering, and the wind outside is oddly comforting, and they're cut off from the world in their own little bubble and Aziraphale would stop time right here and now, if he could, make this moment last forever with its sweet anticipation and the soft ache of uncertainty that stops him just reaching out and finally closing the small distance between them.

"No it's, look, I mean..." Crowley pauses, twiddling the stem of his empty wineglass so hard that it spins between thumb and forefinger. Aziraphale has been meaning to get up and fetch a second bottle of wine for the last half hour, but he doesn't want to move, doesn't want to break the spell. "What if things are _supposed_ to happen?"

He does something to the wineglass that causes it to wobble precariously, almost catapulting out of his hand. Aziraphale takes it away from him, leans forward to put it on the coffee table with his own, leans back again quickly to reclaim the warmth of their little nest.

"You mean like destiny?"

"_No_," Crowley replies, staring at his hands like he's not sure what to do with them now the glass has been taken away. "Screw destiny, hate the whole idea."

"You shock me," Aziraphale says dryly. "It's completely out of character for you."

Crowley jabs an elbow in his general direction, eyes darting to him and then away.

"No, I mean, it's not like, laid out in advance, _obviously_ it's not, that would be _stupid_, but I mean..." He gestures expansively. "What if, sometimes the— the universe or something— hits you with a cosmic ray and gives you this _random idea_ for what to do with your life, and it's, it says, take it or leave it, and you could just _not_, but if you _take_ it, it turns out there was all this _stuff_ you never even knew about and it's like you were _supposed_ to—"

He stops talking abruptly, biting his lip, but Aziraphale has more than got the gist, his heart in his throat and beating like a drum, his hands suddenly gripping the blanket tightly, waiting for Crowley to go on.

Crowley doesn't; Crowley shoots him another glance and it's like he can't keep his eyes on Aziraphale, doesn't dare. Crowley stares at his own hands and curls the fingers in like he's keeping himself from reaching out.

"Anyway," he says after a moment, subdued now, "doesn't matter, never mind—"

Maybe Crowley's right about the cosmic rays, because it strikes Aziraphale with sudden and complete clarity that _one of them has to be brave about this_, that all the glances and touches and flirting in the world mean nothing if they're _both_ waiting for permission.

"Dearest," he says, and Crowley's eyes fly to his, wide and dark in the dim light. Aziraphale reaches out across the space between them and takes his hands, uncurls the fingers gently, winds them together with his own. "As it happens, I do think— sometimes, we end up where we're supposed to be."

"Yeah?" Crowley breathes, searching his face like it's a map of uncharted waters. "And— I mean— you—"

Aziraphale leans across the space between them and kisses him, answering the question before it can even be asked. Crowley doesn't hesitate, melting into him like chocolate on his tongue, a tiny noise at the back of his throat sending a shiver down Aziraphale's spine. For a moment their hands tighten on each other, gripping like they're both afraid of letting go, but then the need to get Crowley closer takes precedence, and Aziraphale disentangles his fingers so he can grab a handful of Crowley's borrowed jumper and haul him in. Crowley's arms go around him so tightly it takes his breath away, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and no, Aziraphale was wrong before, if he could stop time he would do it _now_, with Crowley warm and eager in his arms.

Crowley kisses him with a sweetness that would surprise anyone who hasn't taken the time to learn him well. He's passionate and skilled but he's so careful, his lips so soft and pliant, and in the end it's Aziraphale who starts pushing it further, licking into Crowley's mouth, winding his hands into Crowley's hair, pressing him back into the sofa cushions. Crowley makes an eager, needy noise and does something with his tongue that makes Aziraphale feel quite dizzy and desperately turned on.

By the time either of them is willing to take a break from kissing, they're both breathless and flushed and Aziraphale is half in Crowley's lap and Crowley's hands have found their way under Aziraphale's shirt and they lean into each other, struggling to find words, and in the end, Aziraphale just laughs, because it's easier, and because Crowley's lips twitch in response, and he tilts his head up again to lay one more kiss on the tip of Aziraphale's nose.

"Y'know," Crowley mumbles, eyes glazed and voice kiss-drunk, "if you wanted to have your wicked way with me on your sofa by candlelight you didn't have to wait for a blizzard—"

"Oh, hush." Aziraphale shuts him up with another kiss, lingering and a little bit wicked. Crowley arches interestingly under him, and the soft pyjama trousers do absolutely nothing to hide how hard he already is. Aziraphale shudders with anticipation and draws back just enough that his breath will still be warm on Crowley's lips. "Come to bed with me, darling."

Crowley actually _whines_ at that, scrabbling closer and burying his flushed face in Aziraphale's shoulder, as if it's all too much, just for a second. Aziraphale strokes his hair and presses soft kisses against it.

"Yeah," Crowley says after a bit, muffled in Aziraphale's shirt, striving for casual and missing by a mile. "Yeah, okay."

It takes them a while, even though the bed is just the other side of the room. For one thing they both seem to have developed a sudden and intense addiction to each other's lips; for another, Aziraphale is quite determined to get that jumper off Crowley before he lies down. In the ensuing tangle, the borrowed pyjama top comes off as well, at which point Aziraphale discovers his mouth has a pressing appointment with Crowley's clavicles, and Crowley briefly forgets how legs work. It seems easier at that point just to sort of stagger until they hit the bed and then let gravity do the rest. And oh, Crowley looks so _fetching _on his back against Aziraphale's favourite sheets, hair a cloud of copper on his pillows, making breathy noises as Aziraphale explores the hollow of his neck.

"Ngk," says Crowley, throwing his head back when Aziraphale sucks speculatively on his pulse point. "Just— nrrgh, oh, hang _on_—"

The next thing Aziraphale knows, he's being pressed into the mattress, Crowley's hips pinning him in place while his fingers work quickly on Aziraphale's bow tie. Aziraphale entertains himself by running his hands lightly down Crowley's back and sides, making him squirm in a ticklish sort of way.

"You're a _menace_," Crowley laughs breathlessly. "Hold still for one blasted minute would you?" 

Aziraphale gives him what he knows is an utterly ridiculous smile, and lets his hands drop to the sheets obediently. Crowley makes short work of the waistcoat and shirt buttons, focusing on them as intensely as if he's trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Aziraphale props himself up on his elbows to let Crowley slip the material off his shoulders, and doesn't even protest when it subsequently ends up on the floor. It's hard to care about wrinkled clothes when Crowley's hands are on the button of his fly.

He feels a little self-conscious, with Crowley above him all clean lines and sparse flesh, but Crowley looks down at him with something like worship, fingers pausing for permission.

"All right?" Crowley whispers, and oh, does he even need to _ask_? But of course he does. Of course, of _course_ he does—

"More than all right," Aziraphale replies, bucking his hips up against Crowley's hand to make his point. And _my_ does that feel good. He does it again. "Hurry _up_."

Crowley half-laughs, half-groans, fumbling desperately with the zip, and after a few seconds and a bit of wriggling, the rest of Aziraphale's clothes hit the floor, along with the pyjama trousers that were doing their best to fall off Crowley's hips anyway.

Aziraphale can't wait a second longer, drags him down into his arms, and Crowley settles between Aziraphale's legs with such delicious deliberation that Aziraphale lets out a low cry. He jams their mouths together and sucks on Crowley's tongue. And that just wrings a sinful moan out of Crowley, and a hard, helpless thrust of his hips, and so Aziraphale does it again, and again, until Crowley's writhing against him with such perfect pressure that he could just give himself over to this, come apart in a glorious mess without even going any further.

It's tempting, but he's aching for more, doesn't want to have to wait, not after all the waiting that's gone before.

"Crowley," he manages, "_dearest_, please, I want—"

Crowley pants against his mouth, presses a kiss to the corner of it.

"Yeah? What do you want, _anything_ you want—"

It's Aziraphale's turn to be momentarily overwhelmed, so aroused he can barely stand it, so full of bubbling joy he can barely contain it. Crowley seems to understand the inarticulate noise that he makes, noses against his cheek and under his jaw with soft kisses, curling his fingers into Aziraphale's hair in a way that just feels _nice_.

"I think," Aziraphale says after a moment's contemplation of the many enjoyable possibilities, "that I would like it very much if you would fuck me."

Crowley makes pretty much exactly the strangled sound Aziraphale was aiming for.

"Right," he says weakly. "Okay. Fine. Sure. Do you have—"

"Drawer by the bed."

Crowley props himself on one elbow to reach over and yank the drawer open. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to just look at him, flushed and unsteady, a sheen of sweat on his face and shoulders catching the candlelight in brief golden glimmers, and he's _gorgeous_, and he's so desperate to make love to Aziraphale that his hands are shaking as he fumbles with the packets in the drawer.

"Lotta supplies you got here," Crowley remarks with a sly sideways grin. "Been busy, have you?"

"I'm a _doctor_, they send me free samples all the time," Aziraphale replies with a sniff. "Most of them go to the clinic but—"

"What about this, is this a free sample?"

"Put that back. It needs new batteries anyway."

Crowley snort-laughs and suddenly bends to kiss him like he can't help himself. It's startlingly tender, given how worked up they both are, and for a moment Aziraphale forgets everything else except the way Crowley melts against him, the warmth of him, the weight of him, the ache of uncertainty finally eased.

He's not sure how long they stay like that, but after a while it turns urgent again, and it only takes a moment then for Crowley to slick his fingers and begin gently probing. Aziraphale throws his head back and moans with abandon as the first one slips into him. Crowley's _hands_, oh, he's thought about those clever fingers doing this, and it's even _better_ than he imagined, because Crowley's eyes are on him and then Crowley's mouth is on him, leaving a clumsy trail of rough kisses across Aziraphale's neck and chest.

Aziraphale wouldn't mind doing this for a long, long time, making it the main event, as it were, but that'll have to wait for some future occasion - oh, _yes_, there will be future occasions, won't there? - when he's not so impatient and needy and entirely too close to the edge. He cajoles Crowley into adding another finger, then another, heedless of the slight discomfort from moving too quickly, fixated on the end goal. Crowley's cock is bobbing so temptingly right there in time with each movement of his arm, Aziraphale can't help reaching for it. Crowley shakes his head, elbowing his hand away.

"If you touch me right now, I won't last," he says raggedly. "The _noises_ you make..."

Aziraphale whimpers and clutches at the sheets, suddenly unsure about his own self-control. Crowley's hand stills, and Aziraphale breathes deeply and carefully and thinks about all that cold, cold snow outside until he relaxes and Crowley can gently pull his fingers out.

"Are you—"

"_Yes_, darling, _please_, I need you—"

Crowley won't let him help put the condom on, which is a bit of a disappointment, since Aziraphale rather enjoys making that a part of the fun, but he can see how Crowley has to close his eyes and swallow several times even to manage it himself, so he supposes it's a necessary sacrifice. And _oh_ it's worth it when Crowley finally, finally pushes into him, and Aziraphale cries out so loudly he startles them both.

"Does it hurt?"

"_No_, don't _stop_—" He scrabbles at Crowley's back with greedy fingers and tilts his hips to make things easier. "Please, _please_—"

"_Angel,_" Crowley breathes, and thrusts all the way in, and Aziraphale knows he's completely done for.

"Say that again," he begs, "please, say it— I love it when you—"

"Angel," Crowley repeats, voice breaking as he begins to move his hips. "_My_ angel—"

That's all it takes to send Aziraphale over the edge, and some distant part of him thinks, well _really_, how undignified, he had _plans_— but it's a very distant part, swiftly overwhelmed by a flood-tide of pleasure, ecstatic in its perfection. Crowley manages just one more thrust before he's shaking and almost sobbing through his own release. Aziraphale wraps his arms around him and tangles their legs together and Crowley hides his face in the hollow of Aziraphale's neck and makes helpless, needy noises until his body goes slack, settling over Aziraphale's like the most wonderful blanket in the world.

"Mm," Crowley manages after a while. "Kind of... meant to make that last a bit more..."

Aziraphale laughs and winds his fingers into Crowley's damp hair, stroking the short strands in the blissful afterglow.

"I don't know about you," he murmurs, "but I've been a bit, well, _pent up_ these last few weeks..."

Crowley mumbles incoherently against his neck in a way that suggests agreement without admitting anything. Aziraphale smirks, then gently and reluctantly starts to disentangle himself. He feels like he could fall asleep just like this, but they should clean up, and he can't leave the candles burning overnight.

Well, he thinks with more than a little smugness as he watches Crowley curl into the warm spot he's left in the sheets, at least they've solved the bed problem. It doesn't take long to get things sorted out. He glances out of the window, sees nothing but swirling snow and the distant outlines of heaped drifts of white. Then he thinks to look at the clock, and smiles as he slides back into the bed and into Crowley's drowsy embrace.

"It's after midnight," he says.

"Uh huh," Crowley replies agreeably, snuggling as close as he can get to Aziraphale. "You're warm."

Aziraphale laughs softly.

"That means it's my birthday," he explains.

"Oh." Crowley presses a sleepy kiss to Aziraphale's neck. "Happy birthday?"

"Very _definitely_ happy," Aziraphale replies, and smiles as Crowley murmurs something incomprehensible, already relaxing into sleep. 

He no longer cares about the cancelled trip to the city. He has everything he wants right here.


	5. Winter (Part 2)

**Winter 14**

Crowley has learned a lot about snow in the last twenty-four hours, very little of it good. Who knew the stuff was so _heavy_ and can soak through your shoes so easily? He blames the greetings card industry for making it look so marshmallow-soft and light and pleasant in all the seasonal artwork. Halfway to the farm and his feet are already wet through again, these shoes will never be the same, and his legs feel like lead from struggling through the knee-deep drifts.

And he doesn't care. Not when Aziraphale's arm is tucked through his and every time they lose their balance they cling to each other and laugh and one of them takes the opportunity to steal a kiss.

He understands now why Aziraphale wouldn't let him go home last night (possible ulterior motives aside). It sends a little shiver down the back of his neck, if he thinks about it too long. How many ways he could have got himself into serious trouble just because he never realised that there's a difference between a couple of inches of powder and an actual blizzard.

Good thing Aziraphale was there to save him from himself. And that makes him feel so warm and impossibly soft in the centre of his being that he has to stop and turn and kiss him again, even though neither of them has stumbled this time.

Aziraphale's so _eager_, every time, melting against him with a sigh and a smile. It makes Crowley feel weak at the knees. Mind you, he's not sure any part of him has recovered yet from waking up this morning with Aziraphale stroking his hair, and realising the night before hadn't been some sort of particularly vivid dream.

There's no way they're getting the gate open when they reach the farm, so they have to clamber over. Crowley makes short work of it, turns back to offer a hand to Aziraphale, who is perched on top looking thoughtful. After a moment he hands Crowley his bag, grins, and launches himself off the gate to belly-flop into a particularly deep drift. He doesn't _quite_ leave a cookie-cutter hole like in a cartoon, but it's not far off, and Crowley explodes into laughter. Aziraphale's head pops up, minus its hat, his curls dusted with snow, and his bright eyes and smile take Crowley's breath away.

"That's not how you make a snow angel," Crowley manages after a moment.

"I know, but it looked so _soft_." Aziraphale retrieves his hat and scrambles out of the drift. "Bit chilly, though."

"Now who's trying to give themselves hypothermia?"

"I'm wearing five layers," Aziraphale replies serenely, "and anyway, your house is right there."

It is indeed, and Crowley has to admit that it looks pretty damn picturesque in all the snow. If he still wanted to sell it, he could do worse than take pictures right now. He doesn't even reach for his phone.

Freddie greets them at the door with a series of indignant squeaks that communicate exactly what he thinks of being left alone all night without a nice warm human to snuggle up to. Aziraphale scoops him up and fusses him while Crowley gets the fire going. The power's back on, but Aziraphale has brought a torch and some spare candles with him just in case Crowley needs them later. Crowley's not sure what else is in that bag, but he suspects that if it _somehow_ ends up being too late for Aziraphale to walk back to town later, he'll turn out to be miraculously well equipped for an overnight stay.

The thought makes him feel so warm he has to move away from the fire. He finds his snow shovel and hefts it absently as he looks out of the window, trying to calculate the best way to clear a path to the gate and the chicken coop. There's no option that doesn't involve several hours' work, he realises with dismay.

"We'll take it in turns," Aziraphale says, reading his mind. "Lots of tea breaks."

"You sure this is how you want to spend your birthday?"

Aziraphale smiles a smile that does something unsanctioned to Crowley's heart. He puts the cat down, and comes over to slide into Crowley's arms as easily as if they've been doing this all their lives.

"I'm sure you'll make it worth my while," he murmurs against Crowley's lips.

* * *

**Winter 16**

Aziraphale always finds the beach in winter rather surreal, with snow heaped over the sand and slushy ice in the lapping waves, and the effect is only enhanced by the bright lights of the flotilla of ships that make up the Night Market.

"Why do this now?" Crowley complains, huddling into one of Aziraphale's spare scarves that he has _finally_ agreed to borrow. "It's hardly beach weather."

"I don't know, my dear. Perhaps the merchants like to take the summer off. Or it might just be a tradition. At any rate, it's good for a bit of Winter Star shopping. Did you get the note about the gift exchange?"

"Yeah. I got Sebastian. Easy enough, I'll just get him something for his motorbike."

Aziraphale blinks.

"Sebastian has a motorbike?"

Crowley stares at him.

"Yes?"

"He should have _mentioned_ that in his annual check-up!" Aziraphale huffs. "Those things are absolute _death traps_, I'd have had a thing or two to say if I'd known—"

"That's probably why he didn't mention it," Crowley says with a grin. He nudges Aziraphale with his shoulder. "You didn't hear it from me."

Aziraphale grumbles under his breath as they reach the wooden dock. It's been shovelled and swept, sprinkled with salt and sand, but there are still unavoidable icy patches. He makes the most of the excuse to link his arm with Crowley's. Not that he really needs an excuse now. He's hardly stopped touching Crowley for the last three days, and he has no intention of changing that any time soon, not when Crowley keeps leaning into it like a flower turning towards the sun.

They spend some time wandering between the various boats, looking through the goods on sale. Aziraphale is sorely tempted by a lovely antique silver milk jug, but does have to concede to Crowley's point that he would never actually go to the trouble of using it. In fact, he's got a nagging feeling he might already have one in the back of a cupboard somewhere...

They run into Marnie sipping a large mug of coffee and with three heavily-laden shopping bags at her feet. Aziraphale can see a gaudily painted cow-shaped teapot poking out of one of them and suppresses a shudder.

"Are you going to be all right carrying all that back?" he asks, mostly for the sake of politeness, since he's seen Marnie hefting entire bales of hay around before.

"I'll be just fine," Marnie replies, grinning. She looks at them both knowingly, eyes flicking to Crowley's borrowed scarf and their linked arms. "You two seem happy."

Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat that suggests he is in the process of blushing quite vividly. Aziraphale just smiles beatifically. It's not like they were going to manage more than a few days without the entire rest of the village figuring out they're a couple now. He's actually rather enjoying the thought, not least because he thinks it will make him the subject of a touch of good-natured envy from certain townsfolk.

"It's a lovely night," he says cheerfully, and gently steers Crowley on their way along the dock.

They browse along a few more boats and Aziraphale finds an interesting stash of secondhand books that commands his attention so completely that he's only vaguely conscious of Crowley slipping away. It's only when he's packing the books into one of his eco-friendly canvas bags that Aziraphale realises he's misplaced him.

He looks around and can't see any sign of red hair, but after a moment, he realises he can hear Crowley's voice. At least, he thinks it's Crowley's voice. It almost sounds like he's... _cooing_ at something, which he doesn't even do with the cat (at least, not when he thinks Aziraphale can hear him). Aziraphale follows the sound, mystified.

Crowley is sitting on the deck of a boat and at first glance appears to be under attack by a large mottled brown snake. A second glance notes his delighted expression as the reptile curls around him. He's petting it, and yes, there is definitely cooing involved. Aziraphale doesn't quite know what to make of it, torn between laughter and a fondness so powerful he wants to rush over there and kiss Crowley right now, snake or no snake.

"Made a friend, have we?" he asks as he approaches.

"Her name is Beryl!" Crowley replies with unfettered glee. "Her owner's just gone to find her something to eat. He said I can watch."

"She looks like she's trying to eat _you_."

"Nah, she's nowhere near big enough, are you, precious?" Crowley taps the snake's nose with one finger. A forked tongue flickers out indignantly. "Apparently she's only half-grown, though."

"Oh, good lord."

It's the boat belonging to Lupini the painter, Aziraphale realises; his artworks are set up along the dock. One in particular catches his eye. He doesn't think Crowley can see it from where he's sitting. It's a painting of Beryl herself, or perhaps a cousin, and he thinks it would look rather fetching on Crowley's living room wall.

"You're going to be occupied for a while, I take it?" Aziraphale asks innocently.

Crowley immediately tears his attention away from the snake and focuses on Aziraphale, which Aziraphale finds rather satisfying, he has to say. 

"D'you want to move on? I can—"

"No, no, you stay and watch whatever grisly spectacle is about to happen. I was just thinking I'd wander back and look at the, er—" He wracks his brain quickly. "—the potted plants."

Crowley sniffs derisively. Beryl has coiled around the back of his neck and is peering thoughtfully at his left ear as if she's contemplating sticking her tongue in it.

"I wouldn't bother. Ready to wilt at a moment's notice, the lot of them."

"All the same." Aziraphale gives him a fond smile and then, seeing Lupini emerge from the cabin carrying what looks like a dead rat, hurries away.

He's plotting quickly, scanning the crowds for someone who might be able to— aha, yes, Caroline will be perfect, she'll surely be happy to buy the painting for him once he's drawn Crowley away, and then they can just smuggle it into the clinic tomorrow.

He hears a yelp behind him that is exactly like the sound he would expect Crowley to make if a large snake had suddenly flicked a curious tongue into his ear, followed by a peal of laughter so loud and carefree that Aziraphale just has to stop and turn and look back at him for a breathless moment. His hair is catching the overhead lights like fire and he looks so relaxed and happy that Aziraphale's whole heart just melts into goo.

Then Lupini starts waving the rat around and Aziraphale quickly resumes his path towards Caroline, already plotting whether he has enough wrapping paper for an entire painting.

* * *

**Winter 19**

Crowley has a bad feeling about the way Lewis waves him over to the bar when he arrives. He's been conscious of far too many knowing looks from various villagers since the Night Market, and Lewis has an air of grave purpose about him that makes Crowley's hackles rise. If Lewis owned a shotgun, he thinks he would be about to be reminded pointedly of its existence. He goes over anyway, already biting his tongue.

Lewis buys him a drink and they make polite smalltalk for five minutes and Crowley is not-so-surreptitiously watching the door the whole time in the desperate hope that Aziraphale will arrive before Lewis gets to his intended topic of conversation - but Aziraphale is, of course, running late, probably distracted by _just one more page_ of whatever he's currently reading.

"You know," Lewis says meaningfully, following the direction of Crowley's gaze, "I can't help noticing that you and Dr Fell seem very _close_ recently—"

_Oh great, here we go,_ Crowley thinks. He takes a large sip of his spiced mead (how the hell did it become general knowledge that he likes the stuff, anyway?) and makes a noncommittal noise.

"And while it's none of my business—"

_Like you don't stick your nose into everyone's business in this town..._

"—I did think I should mention—"

_That you recently sharpened your axe? That there's plenty of places to bury a body in the woods? That if I hurt him you'll— _

"—a certain tradition of ours—" 

_Oh my fucking stars please tell me you haven't got a fucking wicker man stashed away somewhere..._

"—just in the event that you might want to make things, ah, more _official_ at some point in the future."

_Just in the event you need to murder me for breaking his heart, you mean— wait, what?_

Crowley blinks, train of thought derailed so abruptly that the entire thing is obliterated in a fireball of confusion.

"What?" he says out loud.

Lewis coughs, very interested in the counter top, but there is a little smile at the corner of his mouth and no particular indication that he's considering the necessity of Crowley's imminent demise.

"We don't go in for rings, you see," Lewis goes on. "There's a lovely little thing called a mermaid's pendant. You should ask Pierre to show you his sometime, I know he's kept it. Give one of those to anyone in the valley and, well, they'll know exactly what you mean."

Crowley stares at him dumbfounded.

He wants to say, _we've been together for less than a week, you mad old man!_ He wants to say, _what even makes you think I'm the marrying type? _He wants to say, _what's wrong with a damn ring?_

What he finds himself saying instead, staring fixedly into his glass, is, "Oh. Right. So, er. Where do you get one of those, then? Just. So I know."

When Aziraphale finally arrives some minutes later, he raises an eyebrow at Crowley's red face and casts a narrow-eyed look at Lewis that suggests he's making the same set of assumptions Crowley initially did.

"Everything all right, dearest?" he asks as Crowley hurries him away from the counter. "Lewis isn't giving you any trouble, is he?"

"No, nope, nothing like that, not at all, everything's fine."

Aziraphale gives him a look that says he suspects otherwise.

"Well, do let me know if anyone's being... unpleasant. I'll have a word with them."

His tone is perfectly mild but it sends a shiver of delighted apprehension down Crowley's spine. He thinks that Aziraphale _having a word_ with someone might leave them quaking in their boots, and he absolutely _loves_ the quiet, fierce protectiveness in Aziraphale's voice.

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, beaming like an idiot.

* * *

**Winter 22**

Aziraphale has discovered, to his dismay, that there are in fact disadvantages to his new relationship status with Crowley. Or, well, one specific disadvantage: they've been so inseparable all week that he's hardly been able to find time to work on Crowley's Winter Star gift. The scarf and hat are done but he's only just finished the first mitten and it's all starting to get a bit last-minute.

He's in the back room of the clinic, reviewing paperwork while his needles clack frantically, when he hears Maru's overly loud, "Hello Crowley!"

Yoba bless her, even if she has also spent the whole week laughing at him and his attempts to stealth knit. Aziraphale has made sure to get her a little something for Winter Star even though she's not his secret gift recipient this year. He thinks she'll enjoy the subscription to _Zuzu City Robotics Weekly_, although he's slightly concerned by the magazine's promise to show its readers how to construct a fully operational miniature satellite. Aren't there rules about launching things into space? Well, Maru's a responsible young lady, he's sure she'll check. And the part about the lasers is probably a joke.

Even with the warning he barely has enough time to bundle up the knitting and hide it in a drawer before Crowley saunters into the room. As it is, he jerks guiltily around in his chair, and Crowley raises an eyebrow.

"Everything all right?" Crowley asks.

"Yes, of course, absolutely fine!" Aziraphale can feel himself blushing, much to his irritation. "Can I help you?"

The other eyebrow goes up, and to Aziraphale's dismay, Crowley suddenly looks uncertain and a bit hurt.

"Bad time?" he says. "I can— I don't have to—"

"No, no, not at all." Aziraphale gets to his feet in a rush and closes the distance between them. He's not tired yet of the small, startled breath that Crowley always takes when Aziraphale hugs him. "I was just— busy."

He can hear the frown in Crowley's voice.

"Weren't you just saying the other day how quiet things are?"

Aziraphale sighs, but he really doesn't want Crowley getting any silly ideas about not being welcome to drop in, so he gives up on trying to think of an excuse.

"It's almost Winter Star, my dear," he says gently.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'm just saying that perhaps I might not wish to answer further questions at this time. For reasons."

"Oh. Oh!" Crowley's face lights up, and he's so _surprised_, like the idea of Aziraphale getting him a gift hadn't even occurred to him. "Right. 'Course. Say no more."

... and he immediately looks around the room like he's trying to spot clues, the bastard. Aziraphale glares at him. Crowley just grins and bends theatrically to check under the examination trolley.

"Anyway...?" Aziraphale prompts, resisting the urge to check whether there's any yarn hanging out of the drawer. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

Crowley rolls his eyes at the phrasing, but he goes slightly pink, as well.

"Er," he says. "I mean. Sorta just. Um."

Aziraphale regards him curiously. Crowley has never really _needed_ an excuse to drop in at the clinic, but he usually comes up with one. Currently it's too late for lunch and too early for dinner, and Crowley _said_ he had plans for the afternoon.

Crowley bites his lip.

"Just wanted to see you," he mumbles, shoulders hunching like he just admitted throwing a brick through someone's window. "'S no big deal, I'll just—"

Aziraphale kisses him, partly to shut him up, partly because he absolutely _cannot help himself_. Crowley makes a surprised but agreeable noise and winds his arms around Aziraphale with what feels like a shudder of relief. Aziraphale isn't inclined to analyse that reaction just now, being a little bit too busy tangling his fingers into Crowley's hair and tilting his head to just the right angle, but he makes a note of it for later consideration. There's been something like wariness in Crowley all week, even as he's unfolded beneath Aziraphale's gaze like some secret winding knot. Something like fear, like hesitation, like he's choosing his words too carefully.

Aziraphale intends to get to the bottom of it. Just. Not right now. Not when Crowley's so warm in his arms and so quick to haul Aziraphale in close. Not when he's so caught up with the _joy_ of this that he feels like he's walking on air.

* * *

**Winter 25**

The strange thing about waking up on the morning of the Winter Star Festival is that it takes Crowley a few groggy minutes to even remember the date. Every other year of his life, he's known instinctively that something was different even before he was fully conscious, because the city gets so _quiet_ on that one day. Quieter than weekends, quieter than any other holiday: all the background hum vanishes as the cars sit on their drives and the buses stop running and the shops stay closed. The absence of sounds you don't even realise you've grown used to, like the periodic beeping of the pedestrian crossing down the block, or the particular way the newsagent's door slams shut after every customer, or the shouts of kids walking to school. It's always felt eerie rather than peaceful, an unwelcome halt in the rhythms of city life, a reminder that today is supposed to be _different_, even though for him it never is.

But waking up on the farm is exactly like it is every other day. No traffic, no crowd noise, no slamming doors. That one blackbird that gets into a shouting match with Freddie every morning is going strong, but it doesn't care about Winter Star or any other arbitrary human markers of time. He can hear the chickens clucking away to themselves, and the faint creak of snow-laden tree limbs, and a soft ethereal whispering that he has finally identified as the sound of the wind through the icicles that hang from the eaves of the house.

He hears the blackbird fly off, and a few seconds later the rattle of the catflap, and then a few seconds after _that_ he's flailing at the cat who has just planted all four icy little paws right on Crowley's warm chest. Freddie just purrs enthusiastically, shaking snow off his fur to land in wet spots on the blanket. Crowley supposes that's his cue to get up and feed him.

And he has things to do today. Somewhere to be. It's a heady, strange feeling. It'll never quite replace the excitement of childhood, the desperate anticipation (and, if he's honest, subsequent disappointment) of what might be under the tree, but he finds himself humming as he arranges breakfast for himself, the cat, the chickens, and the duck.

He remembers hearing about the town's Winter Star traditions not long after he arrived, thanks to someone - Jodi, maybe, or Emily? - enthusing about the food. And at the time, he thought _better make sure I've got other plans that day, don't want to get dragged into some stupid community potluck._ There's still a little bit of him that thinks like that, to be honest, a little bit that flinches from the big jolly village get-together and the idea of making polite conversation for hours.

But Aziraphale will be there, and Aziraphale loves it, he's made that clear enough, the way his face lights up every time he's mentioned it. And Gus and Caroline both stopped by to check if there was anything he particularly wanted to eat, or couldn't eat, and the gift he's bought for Sebastian is all wrapped up and ready to go, and there'll be a place set for him at the table. Crowley thinks he might even be willing to wear a stupid paper hat, if one is provided. It's a novel experience.

His gifts for Aziraphale are all wrapped up and ready to go as well, but by mutual agreement, they're going to do that part later. Because Aziraphale is coming home with him afterwards, and Crowley didn't even have to ask: Aziraphale just proposed it with a shy smile and a hopeful look, and Crowley fell over himself trying to say yes fast enough.

It is very, very hard to remember what an appropriate relationship speed looks like when Aziraphale does that thing with the eyes and the lip biting and the smile like the sun coming up, but at least he doesn't seem to have been scared off yet.

Before Crowley sets out for the village, he dutifully wraps the scarf he's borrowed from Aziraphale around his neck. Only because he doesn't want another round of nagging. Definitely not because it smells like Aziraphale and that makes him feel all wobbly under his ribs. He absolutely does not burrow his nose into the wool and close his eyes for a second before he leaves the house.

He walks along the path that he and Aziraphale cleared after the blizzard, through the gate, and along the lane (which Sam and Abigail and Alex all came out to help shovel, because it's technically community land, even though it only leads to Crowley's farm). There are birds making bird noises in the trees. Crowley has lived his entire life unable to identify any birds other than pigeons and crows, but now he recognises a sparrow, a robin, and a chattering crowd of starlings. That's Aziraphale's fault. He seems to have the bird book memorised, and he's always thrilled to spot a feathery friend, no matter how commonplace the species.

The tables are set out in the freshly-shovelled village square. _We'll all freeze our asses off,_ Crowley remembers complaining a week ago. _Have you never heard of heat lamps?_ was Aziraphale's amused response. Sure enough, he can see the wires snaking out of the saloon, and the faint heat haze at the end of each table. Gus and Emily are bustling around setting out places, and the decorated tree is sparkling like a disco ball. Crowley self-consciously slopes over to it to add Sebastian's gift to the pile. He catches sight of his own name on a tag, and an unexpected lump comes to his throat. 

A touch on his arm has him turning in anticipation, and Aziraphale's already smiling at him, soft as his hand-knit scarf.

"It's all rather lovely, isn't it?" Aziraphale says, cheeks red either with the cold or his delight. "Would you like some mulled wine, darling?"

"Yeah, that sounds good," Crowley replies, and he knows his face is an open book written in the language of love, and he can't do a thing about it. "Lead on."

* * *

Crowley's not gonna lie, there are definitely parts of the proceedings that make him cringe with second-hand embarrassment, like when Lewis stands up and makes a speech about the importance of community, or when Emily insists that they go around the tables saying one nice thing about their neighbour, to 'increase the positive energy in the valley'. He and Aziraphale are seated opposite each other, which Crowley thinks is just as well, since if he were to start talking about Aziraphale's good points he's not sure he'd be able to stop.

It's easier than he fears, when it's his turn, to tell Marnie that he admires her dedication to her animals, and that he's learned a lot from her. She absolutely beams, and pats his hand fondly.

Shane hesitates, looks at Crowley for a moment, then stares ferociously at his mashed potatoes and mutters, "You're a good listener."

And Crowley has no idea how to respond to _that_, because it's the last thing he'd ever have expected anyone to say about him. He talks too much, or he doesn't talk enough, that's usually the way it goes. He isn't even conscious of having gone out of his way to lend an ear to Shane. But then he thinks of all the times they've chatted in the bar before Aziraphale turned up for dinner, of the night or two he's bumped into Shane drinking alone out by the lake, and the way it's always given Crowley a pang of recognition, the grim hopelessness Shane tries to conceal behind a foul mouth and a bad temper. He's always known that offering advice isn't the way to go. He's always just let Shane get things off his chest.

Crowley lifts his glass and tilts it in invitation. Shane grabs his own and clinks them together, nodding brusquely. Crowley only notices then that Shane is drinking sparkling water, not beer, and he smiles despite himself.

He feels Aziraphale's eyes on him and glances up, only to be struck full-force by every last scrap of his attention. The look on his face is so intensely indescribable that Crowley almost spills wine all over his shirt. Aziraphale bites his lip and swallows, visibly getting a hold of himself, and then he smiles so radiantly that it catches Crowley's breath, and reaches across the table to take his hand.

When everyone's eaten enough of Gus's fabulous spread that they're liable to explode, the gifts are exchanged. Sebastian's thrilled with the leather gloves Crowley bought him. Crowley's secret giver turns out to be Granny Evelyn, and the package she retrieves for him from under the tree has been carefully hand-wrapped in tissue paper.

"Little bit of a spin on my usual recipe," she tells him with a smile as he carefully unwraps a tin that once contained toffee, but now, when he opens it, contains two dozen of Evelyn's famous cookies. "A bit of extra ginger, to give them a little heat. I think you'll like them."

Crowley is, all at once, so emotional he doesn't know what to do with himself. He manages to stammer out a thank you that feels inadequate, but Evelyn seems pleased as punch regardless, so there must be something heartfelt about whatever he says. He spends the rest of the gathering clutching the tin as if it's stuffed with gemstones and telling himself very firmly that his eyes are _not_ watering, or if they are, it's only because of the cold.

* * *

They head back to the farm before it gets dark. Aziraphale briefly pops into his flat to collect his overnight bag and gifts for Crowley, and Crowley stares in absolute amazement when he re-emerges hefting a large, flat package bigger than Crowley's TV.

"What on earth is—"

"Wait and see," Aziraphale replies smugly. He hands Crowley his bag, which is heavy enough that Crowley suspects it contains a bottle or two of something good. "Shall we?"

It's been a clear, bright, cold day, and now the edges of the sky are turning gold and orange and pink, little wisps of cloud glowing like metallic ribbons. When they reach the farm, it's looking lovely in the evening light, the drifts of snow gently reflecting the peachy colours from above, the quiet clucking of the chickens like a welcome. Aziraphale sighs happily when they shut the door behind them, puts down his mysterious package, and goes to put the kettle on without even asking.

Crowley takes two steps across the room, intending to light the fire, but finds himself slowing to a stop as if he's suddenly walking through deep sand. He's overwhelmed by a feeling of - it's not deja vu, but it has the same power - perhaps the best way to describe it would be an overwhelming nostalgia for something he's never actually had.

He has returned to his dwelling place countless times in his life, but all at once he's not sure he has ever truly come home before today.

He stands there listening to the sounds of Aziraphale puttering around the kitchen, looking at the holly Aziraphale made him hang up over the fireplace, thinking about how when he wakes up tomorrow it will be with Aziraphale at his side.

"Are you all right?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah," Crowley replies, stirred back into action and quickly completing his journey over to the hearth, "I'm fine."

Just as he gets the fire properly going, Freddie emerges from the bedroom to rub enthusiastically around his legs and loudly proclaim his interest in a little Winter Star feast of his very own. Luckily for him, the leftovers they've brought back are epic in scope and can easily accommodate a small orange cat.

They sit on the sofa together and drink their tea and laugh over the slightly awkward moment when Sam opened his gift from Willie, whose ideas about what a young man would like are about thirty years out of date and follow a very specific theme. Aziraphale thinks Sam was very gracious about receiving a large tub of wriggly fishbait. Crowley thinks he'll be remembering the look on his face for a long time.

"Oh, and I saw you got some of Evelyn's cookies," Aziraphale begins, innocently enough.

"Those are _my_ cookies, angel, you keep your grubby hands off them."

"I don't know _what_ you're implying."

"Uh huh." Crowley turns to fix him with his best court-lawyer glare. "I've _counted_ them, you know."

Aziraphale laughs, and then suddenly somehow his mug has been deposited on the coffee table and he's kissing Crowley, mouth warm and tasting of tea, and Crowley melts into it like a patch of snow in front of a heat lamp. Aziraphale's hands start to wander in an interesting way, and Crowley's just having some thoughts about Aziraphale's buttons when the thrice-damned _cat_ decides to join them.

"_Freddie Meowcury I swear to Yoba—"_

Aziraphale makes a strangled noise of mirth.

"Meowcury?" he repeats, eyes sparkling.

Crowley groans. Freddie takes the lack of being shooed onto the floor as permission, and starts happily digging his claws into Crowley's thigh while purring like a motorcycle.

"Look," he says, but Aziraphale is just quietly losing it next to him, shoulders shaking as he presses a hand against his mouth. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Ah, yes, the title of your autobiography," Aziraphale manages between hiccups of laughter.

"I hate you."

"You don't."

"I don't," Crowley admits, because he can't let something like that sit between them even in jest. "This cat, on the other hand..."

Freddie seems to know he's being discussed, and choses that moment to flop over Crowley's lap with his soft belly uppermost, as if attempting to weaponise his cuteness.

"Oh, but I did rather want to give you your presents," Aziraphale says, jumping up from the sofa while Crowley despairingly contemplates the devastating way Freddie has scrunched his eyes up in bliss and curled his little paws up over his chest. "Wait there a moment."

He hauls the big package over, but then, to Crowley's astonishment, also opens his bag and pulls out a collection of smaller gifts.

"Angel," he protests, "you didn't have to..."

"Oh, well, it's not— it's not anything much, to be honest," Aziraphale replies with a nervous laugh. "Just a few little things I... well, I thought you might... of course, if you don't like them you don't have to—"

Crowley finds a pile of presents formed on the coffee table before he can think his way through to an appropriate response. He blinks at Aziraphale with a sort of dazed wonder.

"Yours are— in that drawer over there—"

Aziraphale finds the dresser in question and makes a delighted, surprised noise when he opens it. He comes back to the sofa with arms full of presents and a look of such excitement on his face that Crowley's heart clenches for fear the contents won't live up to Aziraphale's expectations.

He needn't have worried. Aziraphale is thrilled with the books ("where on earth did you find them?" "I really have to teach you to use eBay, angel") and with all the other little things that Crowley couldn't help collecting for him, delighted by the dessert wine, intrigued by the champagne-and-rhubarb jam, and absolutely awed by the carefully boxed stollen.

"You _made_ it?" Aziraphale says for the second time.

"Yeah, can't guarantee it'll taste good—"

"_Crowley_! I'm going to have some this _minute_."

He rushes off in search of a knife and some plates, and Crowley would be more than content just to sit and watch him bustle, with the joy radiating off him and his easy familiarity with Crowley's kitchen. But Aziraphale is back in a trice, passing him a piece of stollen that Crowley has to admit looks pretty damned good, and casting a meaningful look at Crowley's still-unopened gifts.

"Your turn now," he says, before biting into his stollen with a look of such rapture that Crowley immediately and completely forgets what he's supposed to be doing. "Oh, this is _wonderful_, was it really your first time making it?"

Crowley mumbles something, not willing to admit how many attempts were required to get to this point, or what happened to the failures. Aziraphale devours the stollen like he didn't just eat a five course Winter Star meal and sighs with appreciation when it's gone.

Freddie the cat chooses that moment to stretch luxuriously and attempt to roll over. Unfortunately, he's underestimated the capacity of Crowley's lap to contain his manoeuvres, and deposits himself unceremoniously on the floor, at which point he marches over to the cat flap and goes outside to sulk. It's enough to remind Crowley that he's supposed to be unwrapping his own presents. He heads straight for the big one.

"So, I just thought," Aziraphale begins, "you might like—"

He stops, because Crowley has ripped the paper off in one big gesture and exclaimed in glee at what he sees.

"It's _Beryl_! How did you even— is _that_ what you were sneaking off to do?"

Aziraphale just smiles smugly. Crowley finishes freeing the painting from its wrappings and makes no secret of admiring it. The colours are lovely, and rich oils seem to enhance the sinuous curves of the big snake, while the autumnal background complements the patterns on her scales. It fits perfectly with the theme of the rest of the room. Crowley couldn't have chosen anything that he liked more, and he's overwhelmed all over again by the feeling of being _known_.

He turns back to the other gifts, wondering what on earth else Aziraphale can have found. The packages are squidgy to the touch. Aziraphale bites his lip nervously as Crowley picks at the tape on the first one.

"Now," he says, "_don't_ take this as a criticism of your sartorial choices—"

The package spills its contents into Crowley's lap, loops of soft, crimson wool, snake-like except for the neat little tassels on each end. Crowley stares at it for a long, uncomprehending moment. Then he's ripping up the other two packages to reveal a sleek, stylish knitted hat (not a pompom in sight) and a pair of honest-to-goodness mittens in just exactly his size. All in that lovely red yarn, all without a brand label in sight, and that's when it hits Crowley properly that Aziraphale has _made _these, knitted them just for him, dedicated who knows how much of his time to this secret project.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale sounds uncertain. "It's— if you don't like them, of course you don't have to—"

"No! I mean, yes! I mean—" All at once, Crowley has the horrible feeling that he's going to _cry_, and he's fighting it as desperately as if it will kill him. "I— I just— _angel_—"

His voice breaks, and then Aziraphale's there like a wish made real, scooting along the sofa to touch him on the arm with gentle concern, and it's the catalyst he needs, the wire completing the circuit. He crumples into Aziraphale's arms like his spine can't hold him up any more, buries his face in Aziraphale's shoulder and breathes in the scent of him and can't hold back the _ridiculous_ tears for a single second more.

"Oh—" Aziraphale's arms are around him at once, strong and sure and warm. "Darling, are you—"

"'M _fine_," Crowley mumbles, clinging onto the back of Aziraphale's woolly jumper like a lifeline. "I'm just... I just... 'm having a _moment_."

He manages to put enough indignation into the words that Aziraphale laughs softly, and holds him tighter, cradles him through it, stroking his hair and pressing soft kisses to his temple. Crowley's not even sure he can explain why he's crying, it's all a big mess of bewildering emotion, the strangeness of not being alone on Winter Star, the tiny delights of the community festival, the blinding realisation of how much Aziraphale _cares_ about him.

It all boils over into an honesty that he can't contain.

"I love you," he mumbles into Aziraphale's shoulder, clinging to him like he'll never be able to let go, and Aziraphale's breath hitches in a little gasp. "I love you so, so—"

And then reality catches up with him, mortification, fear. He jerks upright, tries to pull away, all those big shivering feelings suddenly gone sharp and dangerous, like the elation of driving full-speed down an empty road giving way to the horror of an unexpected fallen tree.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry, I—"

Aziraphale won't let him go. Aziraphale keeps tight hold of him and shushes his apology with a kiss so gentle and sweet it makes Crowley's eyes sting with tears all over again. He closes them tightly in desperation and melts into it.

"My dear," Aziraphale murmurs after a while, scattering kisses over his cheek and jaw, "my _dearest_. Why on earth would you apologise?"

"Don't want to make a mess of things," Crowley mumbles. "Don't want to— go too fast— we only just—"

"Darling, it's been almost a _year_," Aziraphale points out, amusement and affection in his every word. "I've been falling in love with you since you brought me those tulips."

Everything in Crowley goes still and quiet and warm and soft.

"Oh," he says. He finally opens his eyes, finds Aziraphale's steady blue gaze on him from oh-so-close, his lips barely a breath away. "You—"

"I love you," Aziraphale repeats softly, and with a quiet joy, like he's been wanting to say it aloud just as badly as Crowley has. "You are— I think you are truly the best thing that has ever happened to me—"

He doesn't get any further because at that point Crowley makes an executive decision that doing anything that isn't kissing is a terrible waste of their time. Aziraphale seems to have no objection. At some point the knitted gifts are quickly tossed onto the coffee table, possibly about the same time that Crowley ends up in Aziraphale's lap, cradling his face as he kisses him over and over again.

The sound of the catflap heralds Freddie's return, and they both pause, looking at each other as Aziraphale struggles not to laugh.

"Perhaps we should, ah—"

"Bedroom?" Crowley suggests at the same time, and he doesn't think he's ever going to get tired of the way desire and love and delight can flood Aziraphale's eyes with such brilliance. "Unless you'd rather put the TV on—"

Aziraphale pushes him unceremoniously off his lap, gets to his feet, grabs Crowley by the hand, and tows him purposefully into the bedroom. Well, that answers that question. Aziraphale shuts the door firmly to prevent further feline interference, and then immediately presses Crowley up against it with a strength and purpose that takes his breath away.

"Angel," he gasps as Aziraphale slides his leg between Crowley's and puts his mouth on his neck in a devastating combo of sensation. "Oh, fuck, _please_—"

"Your wish is my command," Aziraphale murmurs against his skin, pressing even closer, and there is nothing subservient at all about the remark, rather a wicked sort of satisfaction that makes Crowley's knees go weak. "What do you want, my darling?"

"I— nngh—" Aziraphale is rocking gently against him and Crowley is finding it hard to form words. "Whatever you want, whatever you—"

Aziraphale nips lightly at his neck in a way that is possibly meant to be a reprimand, but just makes Crowley moan in an undignified fashion.

"But what do _you_ want?" Aziraphale asks, gentle but insistent, still pinning Crowley to the door so inescapably that there's a kind of intense comfort in it. "Tell me. I want to give it to you."

"You," Crowley blurts out helplessly. "Just... you."

He knows it's not a particularly _useful_ answer in this context, but it's the absolute shining truth and he's in no state to hold back. Aziraphale makes a soft, devastated noise and kisses him like he's suddenly none too sure of his own footing. Crowley holds him up, or they hold each other up - okay, so the door is doing its fair share as well - until Aziraphale regains his composure and tugs Crowley insistently towards the bed.

"Well," Aziraphale says, breathless and beautiful and busy with Crowley's shirt buttons, "perhaps I can... make some suggestions? Present a few options for your consideration?"

Crowley finds himself sprawled on the bed, his shirt falling open. The way Aziraphale's eyes trail over his exposed skin makes him shiver.

"Yeah," he says. "That... that sounds good."

* * *

**Winter 28**

On the last day of winter, Aziraphale wakes up first, which he is coming to realise is the natural order of things. He's never need huge amounts of sleep, whereas Crowley seems to require his full eight hours to function. Especially when he's been thoroughly tired out the night before.

(By the Saturday night quiz in the Saloon, of course, what else would Aziraphale be thinking about idly and slightly smugly as he plays with Crowley's hair? They wiped the _floor_ with Lewis's team.)

He's growing to rather love waking up on the farm. The way the light creeps through the curtains just so, the way the gentle background chorus of wildlife builds in intensity as the sun climbs higher, and perhaps most importantly, the way Crowley clings onto him in his sleep. He's like a very cuddly octopus, or perhaps an exotic vine growing around the nearest tree, trying to keep himself as wrapped around Aziraphale as he possibly can even when he's deeply asleep. He makes little wordless sounds of distress when he thinks Aziraphale might be about to move away, nuzzling into his neck with a sweetness that tends to override any other priorities Aziraphale might have.

Aziraphale thinks that if he could have this every morning for the rest of his life, he would consider himself more than blessed.

... although, one of his arms is developing pins and needles, and he's starting to think he'd really like a cup of tea. He attempts to gently disengage from Crowley's multi-limbed grapple, fails to do so gracefully, and ends up having to pretty much pick him up and deposit him back down on the bed, this time with a spare pillow to cuddle. Crowley makes a dissatisfied noise that suggests he's subconsciously aware he's been foisted off on the soft furnishings, but he snuggles happily enough back under the blankets when Aziraphale stoops to kiss him on the forehead before going in search of caffeine.

Crowley's kitchen is as familiar as his own these days, but something out of place catches his eye as he's waiting for the kettle to boil. A book, shoved hastily onto a high shelf - an absolutely enormous book, in fact, a book that could easily be called a _tome_. Aziraphale reaches for it before he can even consider that perhaps he shouldn't. It's a _book_. In Crowley's house. But Crowley doesn't read books...

Some time later, the kettle has boiled and gone cool again, unnoticed as Aziraphale pages through the _Nice and Accurate Baking Tips_ with increasingly misty eyes. There are scraps of paper in between various pages, notes scrawled in Crowley's careless handwriting, evidence of far more baking experiments than Aziraphale has seen the results of, far more hours of effort than he'd grasped. Some of the notes make him laugh: _wtf are stiff peaks is that a sex thing_ and _note to self do not lift electric whisk out of batter while it's still running unless you like scraping goo off the ceiling_ and_ okay seriously no that's too much icing sugar it can't mean that much icing sugar_ (followed by a small, penitent, _it did mean that much icing sugar, buy more icing sugar_).

It's not that he didn't appreciate Crowley's home baking before, but he's somehow assumed it was just... a thing that Crowley _did_. A hobby he's always had, something he brought with him from the city. The discovery that it's something Crowley has been working on in secret, putting so much effort and care into, leaves Aziraphale quite emotionally compromised and giving serious consideration to a spontaneous proposal of marriage.

Instead, he finds the index, looks for a particular entry. He's not much of a cook, but there are a few things he knows how to do, if he can just check the quantities of ingredients - and sure enough, Agnes doesn't let him down.

By the time Crowley wanders groggily out of the bedroom, Aziraphale is on his second cup of tea and the pancake batter has had ample time to rest and get all delightfully bubbly. He jumps up at once and sets the skillet on the stove.

"What're you up to?" Crowley mumbles, folding himself around Aziraphale from behind like a particularly good-smelling sweater. "Is that—?"

"Breakfast," Aziraphale tells him, and smiles at the surprised and interested noise Crowley makes against his shoulder. "Why don't you sit down, darling, and let me take care of you?"


	6. Year 2

**Spring**

The sunlight is that special sort of golden, heavy on the back of Aziraphale's neck as he locks up the clinic. The air is warmer every day as spring gains strength and steam, and as he starts down the road towards the farm, the trees are so frothy with blossom they look like they're going to overflow.

He's always found living right above the clinic terribly convenient, but he's discovered he also rather loves this walk to the farm. Everything is soft and bright at once, the trees and the bushes giving off a sense of accomplishment after a hard day's growing. The verges are a riot of flowers, and the grass is shooting skywards like it's going out of style, filling the air with the scent of green things.

If he's honest, though, the very best part is the moment when he comes around the corner of the lane and sees the gate and the house beyond it, and his heart swells with a kind of quiet joy he's never felt so readily before.

He pauses just inside the gate to look over the farm. The scrubby trees and weeds have been pushed right back to the edges of the land now, and the space is full of carefully demarcated plots and paths between them. Even so, there's a kind of artless chaos to it, a wonderful freeform design that's a world away from the stark, regimented fields of commercial farms. Most of the plots are overflowing with flowers - Aziraphale loves the sight of the tulips swaying in the breeze even more than he loves them in a vase on the kitchen table - and the newly-installed beehives are buzzing with activity. 

On the far side of the farm is the beginnings of the apple orchard, saplings planted in a double row with a charming rustic cobble walkway laid between them; Crowley has finally found a use for all the rocks. The saplings are much bigger than Aziraphale thought they would be. It won't be long before they're covered in blossom, and there will probably even be a few apples in the autumn.

He has to edge past Freddie, who has taken to dozing on the steps up to the front door in the evenings. Freddie half-opens one eye with a typical feline disregard for the inconvenience he's causing, and Aziraphale pauses to scritch him between the ears. He's probably fully grown by now, Aziraphale thinks; he's never going to be a very large cat, but it's hard to believe he was once so tiny he could fit into the palm of Crowley's hand.

When he opens the farm door - he doesn't bother to knock these days - he's surprised to find Crowley sitting at the kitchen table instead of lounging on the sofa with his phone. Crowley glances up with just a dash of guilt.

"Oh, is it that late already—?"

Aziraphale blinks at the papers spread out on the table, recognising the letterhead on several of them.

"Is that my case file?"

He's been wrestling with it again these past few weeks, grimly struggling through the anxiety that always accompanies re-reading the details, and it seemed easiest just to bring the paperwork over here to study in the evenings. He doesn't exactly _mind_ that Crowley is looking through it, but...

"Just, uh. Just thought I'd check something." Crowley shifts in the chair and starts gathering up the papers haphazardly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to— wasn't going to say anything in case I was wrong—"

"Wrong about what?"

Crowley hums reluctantly. Aziraphale crosses the room to stand behind his chair, letting his hands rest lightly on Crowley's shoulders. He feels them relax at once.

"Look, I'm not promising anything," Crowley says after a moment. "Maybe I'm reading it wrong. But I reckon your lawyer's missed a trick. I mean, can't blame her, her caseload's probably nuts, and that _Gabriel_ fellow's done his best to muddy the waters, but if I'm not mistaken there's a honking big hole in his argument that ought to put the whole thing to rest in your favour."

"Oh," Aziraphale says, tightening his hands on Crowley's shoulders, leaning in to try and see what he's seeing in the papers. He deliberately hasn't asked for Crowley's advice on the case. He doesn't want to take advantage of their personal relationship, especially when Crowley chose to leave that world behind. "Do you— do you really think so?"

"Not promising anything," Crowley repeats quickly. "Don't get your hopes up, okay? Not until I'm sure."

"Of course." Aziraphale leans in to wrap his arms properly around Crowley's chest; Crowley relaxes back into him with a sigh of pleasure. Aziraphale presses a soft kiss to the top of his head. "But thank you, dearest. Even if it comes to nothing."

Crowley makes one of those noises he makes whenever Aziraphale showers him with affection, like he can't stand it and wants more at the same time. He tilts his head back hopefully. Aziraphale can't quite kiss him properly from this angle, but he lays a small smooch on the tip of Crowley's nose, and laughs as Crowley goes cross-eyed as a result.

"Now, what about dinner?" Aziraphale says, and he's _trying_ to imply that he'll have a go at putting something together if Crowley wants, but they both _know_ that it's going to be Crowley doing the cooking. He's starting to develop something of a knack for it even outside baking. "I could—"

"Nuh uh. I've got plans." Crowley twists around in his seat, kisses Aziraphale soundly, then leaps up and yanks open the fridge door. "Look."

Aziraphale dutifully sticks his head in, and encounters a large paper-wrapped package that smells of the sea.

"And that is—?"

"Fish," Crowley says triumphantly. "Willy dropped it off earlier." He pivots to point at the counter, where a number of home-grown potatoes are sitting in a basket. "Aaaand... _chips_."

Aziraphale takes in for the first time the presence of a deep fat fryer on the hob. He doesn't know when Crowley bought it, or where he's been hiding it, or how long he's been plotting this, but he absolutely cannot contain his delight.

"Are you really going to—"

"Found a great recipe for batter, easy as anything to whip up, thought you'd like— mmph!"

It's not like Aziraphale could _not_ kiss him, after that. Crowley blindly pushes the fridge door shut and Aziraphale crowds him up against it, dislodging one of the novelty magnets that seem to spontaneously come into existence whenever they're not looking. Crowley's hands wind into his hair and Aziraphale just _loves_ the way he's ever-so-slightly clinging, as always a little off-balance and amazed, like he still doesn't quite understand how Aziraphale can love him so very much. Aziraphale knows the feeling. It's the way he feels when Crowley so casually goes out of his way to find just the thing Aziraphale will enjoy for dinner tonight, or exactly the right lamp for that corner of the sofa where Aziraphale likes to sit and read, or takes the time to go over his casefile to see if he can help...

"I _adore_ you," Aziraphale murmurs, breaking the kiss only to nuzzle helplessly against Crowley's jaw, bury his face in his neck and breath in the scent of him.

"Angel," Crowley breathes in response, wrapping his arms tightly around him and crushing him close. After a moment, he mutters, "I didn't even get to dessert..."

"There's dessert?"

"Mmhmm. Raspberry pavlova. Fresh cream from Marnie's cows."

"You are a _miracle_," Aziraphale says fervently. "Do you need any help?"

There is a pause as they both contemplate Aziraphale's last attempt to cook anything more complicated than pasta. Aziraphale can't see the scorch mark on the counter, with his face pressed to Crowley's shoulder, but he can feel it there, accusing and still smelling faintly of burnt garlic and despair.

"You could choose the wine?" Crowley suggests.

"Yes, excellent, I'll get right to it." Aziraphale doesn't release Crowley, doesn't lift his head. There's no hurry. There's no reason to let go until he wants to, although he's not sure, at this rate, that he's ever going to want to. "Perhaps that white we picked up in the city last weekend."

"Sounds good." Crowley's not making any move to separate them either. His hands are warm on Aziraphale's back, thumbs stroking absentminded circles between his shoulderblades. "It's all good."

_It is_, Aziraphale thinks happily. _It really is_.

* * *

**Summer**

Crowley is, in all honesty, not particularly enthused about going for a picnic on the beach. It's one of those ideas that sounds nice in theory, but then you have to confront the fact that the summer sun is an angry, vengeful god with a particular vendetta against Crowley's pasty skin, that sand has no business being anywhere near either foodstuffs or his smartphone, and that there will _always_ be children (and occasionally adults) shrieking and throwing water about.

Not to mention crabs. Crowley doesn't like to think about crabs. Definitely doesn't like to think about a traumatic childhood memory involving a pinched toe and being chased up the beach by an enraged crustacean of unusual size.

His pleas for mercy have fallen on deaf ears, a large tube of sunscreen has been purchased, a picnic basket has been prepared, and so he finds himself trudging in grim defeat down the path towards the too-bright water while Aziraphale hums happily to himself. Along with his big straw hat, he's wearing _sandals_ and has rolled up his sleeves, though he hasn't gone so far as to put on a pair of shorts. The fact that Crowley has seen him naked quite a _lot_ at this point does nothing to stop the sight of his pink toes and bare forearms feeling positively _scandalous_.

He's distracted enough not to notice where they're headed until he finds himself suddenly in the shade. He looks up, startled. Aziraphale has led them over to a pair of comfortable chairs underneath a sturdy beach umbrella. There's a coolbox for drinks, and a decent-sized table, and a good big rug spread under it all to keep the sand at bay.

"Wait, where did all this come from?"

"Oh, Willy has a side business setting up deckchairs and so on in the summer," Aziraphale says casually. "Didn't you know?"

Crowley sputters and stares indignantly as Aziraphale settles himself into one of the chairs. Aziraphale looks up at him innocently, but can't quite suppress the mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

"Wha— you let me think we'd be burning to a crisp on a bit of blanket all afternoon—"

"Did I? I can't say I remember suggesting any such thing—"

"This is practically _civilised_," Crowley whines, offended on a level he can't even quantify. "This is... this isn't a picnic, it's— it's _al fresco dining_!"

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow with the smuggest, sweetest smile.

"Well, if you'd _rather _sit on the sand, there's plenty of it. I can toss you a sandwich now and again."

Crowley dumps the basket on the table and collapses into the other chair in a cloud of grumpy surrender. He's spent days - _days!_ \- building up to this sulk, and he'll be damned if he's going to let it go to waste. Aziraphale simply beams at him and leans forward to start unpacking the food.

"Might as well get Robin to build you a bloody _cabana_ down here," Crowley mutters. "Put in a couple of hammocks and a fridge—"

"Oh, what a lovely idea!" Aziraphale exclaims with absolute delight. "Do you think we could persuade Lewis—"

"_Angel_—" Crowley can't do it, he can't hold onto the sulk in the face of Aziraphale's beaming enthusiasm and smug satisfaction. He laughs, and leans back in the chair. It's _nice_ here, shaded from the direct sun, just enough of a breeze off the sea. There aren't even any shrieking children, and not a crab in sight. "Ugh. Fine. Pass me a pork pie."

Aziraphale rummages around, puts a pie on a plate - one of Crowley's plates, incidentally, and not a paper one - and then adds a few more nibbles Crowley didn't ask for, but will very much enjoy, including some hot chilli chutney Shane gave them. Aziraphale hands Crowley the plate, along with a knife and fork wrapped neatly in a napkin. Then, to Crowley's mingled disbelief and amusement, he reaches back into the basket, and two of Crowley's wineglasses make an appearance.

"You ever heard of plastic cups, angel?"

"Terrible for the environment. And so _uncouth_." Aziraphale shakes his head as if Crowley has suggested drinking straight from the bottle. "No, we're doing this properly, thank you _very_ much."

Another laugh bursts out of Crowley without so much as a by-your-leave. Aziraphale retrieves a pair of tea cups - those are definitely not Crowley's, though they've been hanging around in his cupboard for a while now - and a tartan-patterned thermos which Crowley just knows will be full of perfectly brewed Earl Grey. There's probably a goddamn lemon slice in that basket somewhere.

"You've got half the kitchen in there," Crowley protests, still laughing. "No wonder it was so bloody heavy!"

"You're such a dear for carrying it," Aziraphale replies sweetly. The flattery is transparent but still effective. "Don't worry, I'll do the washing up when we get home."

"No, you won't," Crowley replies knowingly. "You'll dump it all in the sink to 'soak' and forget about it."

Aziraphale shoots him a wounded look that does nothing to dampen Crowley's smirk. He sets about the pork pie, leaving Aziraphale to pout into his cucumber sandwiches.

It's only then that it hits him: _when we get home_.

Technically, Aziraphale hasn't moved in with Crowley. Technically. But Crowley can't actually remember the last time Aziraphale spent the night elsewhere. Half his belongings seem to have made their way over to the farmhouse, including more books than should have been able to fit in the flat. Crowley's closet contains a lot more tartan and beige than it used to, as well as some indecently fluffy jumpers that he might, just occasionally, steal when it's chilly in the evenings.

_Home_. Is that how Aziraphale thinks of the farmhouse now? Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of announcement? Or at least a conversation about it? Not that Crowley minds - not that Crowley feels anything but brilliant, burning _joy_ at the thought - but after so long worrying about going too fast, he's blindsided by the way this seems to have crept up on him.

"Everything all right, dear?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley realises he's been holding a piece of pork pie and staring at it for over a minute.

"Was just thinking," he says slowly, which is a lie: whatever is about to come out of his mouth has had absolutely no pre-planning applied to it. "Robin's got some ideas about extending the house a bit more. Couple more rooms upstairs, some more space in the living room. Could go for it. Get you some proper bookshelves. Bring your armchair over from the flat. And the rest of your stuff."

He risks a glance over the table. Aziraphale has gone lightly pink, but he doesn't look in any way surprised or taken aback.

"That would... that would be lovely," Aziraphale says softly after a moment. "Perhaps I... could even think about renting out the flat, what do you think? Though I suppose it's a bit small for most people coming out from the city—"

"Penny needs a place of her own," Crowley says instantly. He finally bites into the pork pie. It's delicious, and he feels so perfectly happy in this moment, he almost doesn't know what to do with himself. "She's been saving up from her online tutoring. Bet she'd take you up on it."

"Oh, what a good idea," Aziraphale replies, with a smile so warm and soft that Crowley can't look directly at it.

"Full of good ideas, me."

Aziraphale reaches across the table and captures Crowley's spare hand.

"You're the best idea I've ever had," he says, completely straight-faced.

The moment lasts for about half a second before Crowley breaks, laughing so hard he has to wipe at his eyes.

"Yoba's sake, angel, you want some crackers with that cheese?"

Aziraphale smiles contentedly.

"I rather think I've already got everything I need, my dear."

* * *

**Fall**

It's a wet and blustery day, perfect for spending indoors with a good book and a cup of tea. Particularly perfect for sitting in the cosy corner of the new upstairs study, where everything still smells of new wood and paint, but the books lining the shelves are comfortingly familiar. The rain hits the window under the eaves in pattering droves, and Aziraphale is just exactly the right temperature under his tartan blanket, especially with Freddie acting as a rumbly little hot water bottle in his lap. The teapot is the lovely glass one Crowley found for him, with the extra insulation to keep the tea warm, and the biscuits are those little shortbreads that Aziraphale loves. There's always another box of them in the cupboard, somehow. He could stay here forever quite contentedly, especially since he's in no danger of running out of books. His latest order has just turned up, in a box large enough to make Crowley tease him for a week.

At least, until he got distracted by whatever it is that's making him slink skittishly around like a tightly-coiled spring. Aziraphale has been observing this process with mild interest for the last few days. Crowley can barely sit still and keeps sneaking what he probably thinks are very subtle glances in Aziraphale's direction and periodically gets this look on his face like he's staring over the edge of a very tall cliff and doesn't quite know whether jumping is a good idea.

He's quite obviously planning something, probably something ridiculously extravagant for Aziraphale's benefit, and Aziraphale loves him so much it almost _hurts_. He doesn't normally get _this_ antsy about theatre bookings or desserts or flowers, though. Aziraphale almost wonders if he ought to say something, ask about it point-blank to put Crowley out of his anticipatory misery.

But he has the tiniest suspicion, fluttery and thrilling and electric, of what Crowley might have in mind this time, and he wouldn't want to spoil it for the world.

He loses himself in his book for a while, and is drawn back to reality by Crowley charging up the stairs at a speed that suggests some urgent announcement, but which Aziraphale has learned is just how Crowley climbs stairs.

"Angel!" Crowley bursts into the room; perhaps he really does have something to say? Aziraphale's heart starts to race. "The rain's stopped!"

Aziraphale blinks. It's true, he hasn't heard that patter of drops on the glass for a while. In fact, the sun has come out. He can see a lovely lazy golden beam striking through the trees. He's not quite sure it deserves this amount of fanfare.

"And...?" he tries.

"Let's go for a walk."

"I'm actually right in the middle of this chapter—"

"It could start up again at any minute," Crowley says urgently. "Come on, we've got to seize the moment!"

Aziraphale stares at him, and at the way he's shifting from foot to foot, hands in pockets and then out of them again, eyes darting everywhere but Aziraphale's face.

"Well, all right," Aziraphale says, closing his book and gently nudging Freddie off his lap. His heart rate has picked up again, but he's a lot better than Crowley at hiding it. "You do look like you need to burn off some energy."

Aziraphale makes sure to take an umbrella with them, even though it's probably too windy to use one and Crowley insists the break in the clouds will last. Everything's wet outside, wet leaves shuffling around in the wind, wet grass shivering with each gust of air, wet trees sending little miniature rain showers down with every twitch of their leaves. It would be thoroughly damp and unpleasant, except that the lazy evening sun is at just the perfect angle to catch every drop of water, every glistening leaf, and turn it to sparkling crystal. Aziraphale will admit that it's worth the cost of shivering a bit and shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. Especially when Crowley reacts by linking their arms together and pulling him in close to his side.

Crowley obviously has a destination in mind, and Aziraphale wonders briefly if in fact he's about to be proudly shown some new concoction Crowley has come up with in the brewing shed. Their first attempts at mead were... less than successful, but they've plenty of honey to experiment with. The latest obsession has been blackberry jam. Crowley's bought an enormous pot that Aziraphale is privately convinced was intended as a child's bathtub rather than a cooking implement. Some important lessons have also been learned about boiling sugar, although Aziraphale hasn't had to dab burn ointment onto any part of Crowley for almost a week now, so hopefully he's got the hang of it.

But no, Crowley bypasses the shed and leads Aziraphale along the path towards the orchard. The saplings have grown so fast this year that they're already more like small trees, and as they approach, Aziraphale catches his first glimpse of red peeking out from between the leaves.

"Oh!" he exclaims. "Are they ready?"

"Not all of them," Crowley replies, and that nervous tension is intensifying, almost vibrating through their linked arms. "Just a few for now. But I wanted you to see..."

They turn into the avenue of trees, and Aziraphale understands at once. The leafy, lovely path stretches before them, and on both sides the apple trees sway and rustle, and even the unripe fruits are glimmering wonderfully with their coat of raindrops. The sun-shadows dance across the ground and the light is honey-heavy and it makes something in Aziraphale _ache_ to look at it. It's almost like a pathway to another world.

"It's just," Crowley says abruptly, stopping mid-step, almost clinging to Aziraphale now. "It's just, this is what I imagined, you know? When I decided to buy the farm - it's _Eden_ Farm, right? - and I thought - I know farming's s'posed to be all fields and stuff but I just— I thought about trees. Just like this."

"Oh," Aziraphale barely breathes, afraid to say a single thing that might interrupt Crowley's rambling confession.

"But, you know, I didn't— I didn't really think it would ever— when I came out here, I think I just, I expected to fail, really, I thought— I dunno— I wanted..." 

Crowley gulps. Aziraphale leans into him. They're both still looking down the path, not at each other.

"Never thought I'd be—" Crowley's voice has dropped so low it's like a prayer. "Never thought I'd really do it. Or— or have someone to— share it with."

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale murmurs, unable to help himself then, turning to pull Crowley fully into his arms. "I—"

"No, wait, listen, I'm not— I need to—" Crowley makes a frustrated noise at his own ineloquence, wraps his arms tightly around Aziraphale, buries his face in Aziraphale's shoulder. "I mean..."

He takes a deep breath. Maybe something about being in Aziraphale's arms gives him confidence, or soothes away his nerves. Maybe the time's just right, as Aziraphale holds him close and holds his breath and hopes.

"Will you marry me?"

Aziraphale makes a tiny, involuntary sound that is in no way sufficient to convey the magnitude of his joy.

"Yes, of course, of _course_ I—"

He doesn't get any further because then Crowley is kissing him, and they're both half-laughing into it, breathless and giddy and perfect.

"Got you a thing," Crowley says after a while, pressing his face into Aziraphale's hair. "Some sort of shell on a string, I dunno—"

"A mermaid's pendant? _Really_?" Aziraphale pulls back to give him an astonished look. "Those are so hard to get hold of these days—"

"Got some tips. From people." Crowley's blushing and grinning at the same time, as delighted as ever to be the cause of Aziraphale's delight. He fumbles in his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, longer than it is wide. "Here."

Aziraphale takes the box and opens it with shaking hands. They're exquisite little things, the mermaid's pendants, crafted from a particular rare shell using closely-guarded techniques. There are dozens of superstitions attached to them, centuries of meaning behind the gesture. Aziraphale doesn't care a whit for any of them just now. What he cares about is what Crowley is saying without words: that he doesn't just want to spend his life with Aziraphale, but that he wants to do it _here_, in this place where they've so unexpectedly found everything they never thought they would have.

"It's beautiful," Aziraphale says, choking a little and blinking to clear his suddenly misty eyes. "Oh, _Crowley_."

Crowley cups his face with one hand, banishes a tear with the pad of his thumb, leans in to kiss the salt away.

It's at that exact moment that the heavens open again; they've been too wrapped up in each other to notice the sun going back behind the increasingly ominous clouds. It's so sudden that Crowley actually yelps aloud, while Aziraphale gasps at the shock of cold, and then starts to laugh at Crowley's look of utter outrage.

"Oh, come on, five more _minutes_!" Crowley yells at the sky.

Aziraphale quickly tucks the pendant away, and then, with only a little smugness, opens his umbrella and shields Crowley from the rain. The wind tries to catch the umbrella and tear it inside-out, but it's a good, solid old thing, and Aziraphale is strong enough to keep hold of it until they're safe back inside.

"Let's go home," Aziraphale says, and Crowley's scowl softens, even though his hair is already dripping into his eyes.

"Yeah," Crowley replies, letting Aziraphale take his arm again, this time letting himself be led. "Okay."

* * *

**Winter**

It is possible that Crowley is never going to move again, and he's okay with that.

The snow has been falling since last night. Not a full blizzard, just a long, steady fall that's been building up inch upon inch outside. They've been going out to shovel the paths clear every couple of hours throughout the day, so hopefully tomorrow won't be quite such a big job.

Now, though, it's such heavy dusk it's almost fully dark, even though the sun is probably still above the horizon, somewhere behind all those thick grey clouds. Too dark to do any shovelling, and Crowley's shoulders are aching anyway. The fire is crackling merrily away on the hearth. Time to turn the lights on, really, but that would involve moving, and again, that's not included on the agenda at this point.

Aziraphale is the most perfect warm weight against him - half on top of him, in fact, since the sofa isn't all that wide - and he's fast asleep, making little snuffling noises occasionally against Crowley's neck. It's not all that often Crowley gets to be the one awake while Aziraphale sleeps, given that Aziraphale apparently functions quite happily on about four hours a night, and is usually up and about before Crowley's even managed to smack the alarm clock onto the floor.

They only meant to sit down for a cup of tea, but then Aziraphale was leaning against him with such drowsy contentment, and Crowley couldn't quite get his arms _enough_ around him, so it seemed easiest to just topple over and arrange themselves comfortably that way. It was the work of a moment to tug down the knitted blanket that hangs on the back of the couch and toss it over them both, and then the next thing he knew, Aziraphale had gone all pliant and warm in his arms, breathing falling into those little half-snores, hair tickling Crowley's chin, and yeah, Crowley is never moving again. This is his life now. He doesn't even care that he can't reach his phone.

The sitting room is sinking into deeper and deeper shadows, and the leaping, warm light of the fireplace seems to brighten in response. Crowley can see the snow falling outside the window, and it just makes everything feel cosy and snug. It doesn't even matter if the power goes out, now that he's had a backup generator installed. They'll be warm and safe in here even if it snows until the new year.

They're planning the wedding for the end of spring. Well, _Aziraphale_ is planning the wedding: Crowley doesn't have a lot of thoughts on anything past the bit where he gets to be with Aziraphale forever, whereas Aziraphale has complicated opinions about napkins. It'll be just on the cusp of summer, when the apple trees will all be laden with blossom. Aziraphale also has opinions about symbolism and outdoor ceremonies, apparently. It's all fine with Crowley. If Aziraphale wants a four-horse carriage and a full marching band, he's fine with that, too.

It's not like they can't afford to splash out a bit if they want to. The payout from Aziraphale's court case has ended up being quite substantial, although in Crowley's opinion, the real prize was seeing the look on Gabriel's face when it all fell apart around him. Particularly the bit where he was ordered to write to every one of Aziraphale's former patients and take full responsibility for overcharging them. He'll probably drag his feet on that as long as he can, but the verdict made headlines in Zuzu City - which may or may not have been helped along by a quiet word with a court reporter of Crowley's acquaintance - and Aziraphale has already received several letters and cards that have made him quite emotional.

(The clinic is undergoing both internal and external investigations, has by all reports already lost half its patients to other doctors, and actually had the nerve to write to Aziraphale offering him his job back. Crowley has never seen anyone laugh so hard while radiating such incandescent outrage. The letter went straight on the fire.)

Aziraphale finally stirs, though it's mostly to nuzzle closer into Crowley's neck with a little wordless sound of approval. Crowley tightens his arms around him, buries his face in Aziraphale's curls, and considers drifting off into a nap of his own.

But no, Aziraphale does wake up properly at that point, mumbling something incoherent that is immediately interrupted by a large yawn.

"Oh, goodness, did I fall asleep?" he says, raising his head to blink muzzily at Crowley.

"Little bit," Crowley admits, reluctant to let him go. "Was thinking of joining you."

Aziraphale doesn't seem in any hurry to move, at least. He wriggles comfortably against Crowley and then props himself up on one elbow to smile fondly down at him. His hair looks like a thistle that's touched a live wire and his eyes are sleepy and dark in the dim light.

"Best not," Aziraphale says. "You'll get a crick in your neck."

"Could go to bed," Crowley suggests hopefully.

"It's a bit early," Aziraphale protests. "What about dinner?"

His stomach rumbles as if to make the point. Crowley laughs, cups his cheek, and kisses him. They stay like that for a while longer, lazy and contented, exchanging kisses and talking about nothing at all. Eventually, Aziraphale is lured off the sofa by the prospect of more tea. Crowley retrieves his laptop and opens up the financial spreadsheet he keeps for the farm. It's all looking good. It's never going to make him rich, but the artisan goods like honey and jam sell for enough to balance the books, and Crowley's got a pretty solid plan for the next couple of years to make sure the whole place keeps ticking over.

He's got another plan too, one that's still half-formed and full of questions. It's to do with the way he felt when Aziraphale's case wrapped up, how intoxicating it was to get that thrill of winning a legal argument without the taint of corporate greed. It's to do with how Pierre and Lewis have been floating the idea of a town co-op to push back on Morris and Joja Mart, and how Crowley thinks with good legal advice they could make something really special happen in this community. It's to do with Leah confessing, while she worked on the labels Crowley commissioned her to design, that she's afraid of trying to sell her work online because she doesn't know how to defend her copyright.

"Would it be weird," Crowley says abruptly, because apparently the idea has incubated for long enough and needs to be given voice _right now_, "to run a farm _and_ a part-time legal consultancy?"

Aziraphale looks up from where he's rummaging in the biscuit tin, eyebrows raised and a slightly troubled look on his face.

"It would be fairly strange," he says cautiously, then goes on quickly, "but I don't see why you shouldn't." He hesitates. "Only, the commute to the city—"

"No, no, not in the city," Crowley interrupts urgently. "No way, I'm not getting back into all that. More like, I dunno. Advice. Bit of a hand for people who need to find a full-time lawyer. Drafting contracts for freelancers and so on. I'd set up a website, consult by phone and email, that sort of thing."

Aziraphale's expression has relaxed into something both relieved and desperately affectionate.

"Helping people, you mean?"

Crowley's face burns and he sputters through something that's not quite a denial. Aziraphale brings his tea back over to the sofa and settles himself in next to Crowley like he belongs there. Which he does, of course. Which he does.

"What a lovely idea," Aziraphale murmurs, resting his head on Crowley's shoulder. "Yes, my dearest, I think that would be an excellent use of your skills."

"Mm, well, I'll think about it some more," Crowley says casually, like he hasn't already started coming up with names with awful puns in them. "Got lots to do in the new year. Some sort of wedding or something, I don't know..."

Aziraphale laughs and sips his tea and shoots Crowley a lovely, twinkling glance like they're co-conspirators.

"I love you," Crowley blurts, the words and the feeling tumbling out of him helplessly all at once. "I'm so glad I— that we—"

"Oh, darling." Aziraphale puts the tea aside and turns to cup Crowley's face in his hands. "Yes. I know. So am I. And I love you so very, very much."

Aziraphale tastes of tea when Crowley kisses him, and his hands slide into Crowley's hair in the way Crowley loves, and his breath catches just a little when Crowley slides a hand up his back.

"You know," Aziraphale says breathlessly after a few minutes of that, "maybe it's not too early for bed after all."

"Oh?" Crowley dips his head to start mouthing along Aziraphale's neck. "What about dinner?"

"Sod dinner," Aziraphale mutters, and if Crowley needed another declaration of love, he could hardly have asked for one more sincere. "We can have a late supper instead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and find me on tumblr as [brightwanderer](https://brightwanderer.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Untitled Stardew Omens Fic by Atalan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591090) by [werebear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/werebear/pseuds/werebear)


End file.
